Lapse

Lapse

I can’t remember her laugh. 

Maybe it was deep and warm, 

Laced with Old Texan charm. 

But then again,

There’s a lot I don’t remember.

Moths feast on the last photos my mind saved,

Taunting me with glimpses

Of honey blonde curls and bronzed skin.

What was her name again?

There is a woman at the end of my bed.

Cloaked in white,

Hazel eyes mirroring mine.

Shining with guilt or relief, I can’t say.

She glides towards me,

Light as a feather.

Soft hands cup my face

And I am seven years old again.

XOXO, Michaela