One innocent spring
your voice meant to me
less than tires turning
on a distant street.
 
Your name, perhaps spoken,
led no chorus of
batons
unrehearsed
to crush against my
empty chest.
 
That cool spring
was shortened by
your summer, bold impatient
and all forgotten
except when silence
turns the key
into my midnight bedroom
and comes to sleep upon your
pillow.

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sandra consolata
casi 2 años

I absolutely love your poem, but I'd like to do a spoken version of your poem if you'd let me

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sandra consolata Janaviya
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