Poem 18

A touch,
a kiss,
a fairy tale of you and me
washed in by the rains.

My heart drips nostalgically.

I saw myself leave,
I saw you wait,
but only for a while.

A drizzle,
a shower;
they drum the whispers you sent with the wind.

I return now with broken dreams in my hand.
Tell me, oh jester,
will you mend them for me?

*Image: Rendition in watercolor of a she clown’s photograph

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