As the needle of my
record player glides
across the ridges of
a thrifted vinyl,
I‘m reminiscent of
when we carved our
ridged initials into the
overgrown oak tree
down by the creek.
Where the white flowers
were painted with a golden
hue radiating from the sky.
Your eyes glistened in
the same glow as the blossoms.
The same yellow gleam that
reflected off the creek.
I inspect your rosey cheeks
while your hands pluck
the daisies from the
earth and arrange
them gently in my hair.
You whisper kind, soft
words to me almost as
if you’d wake the earth
from her peaceful
slumber if you
spoke too loud.
I kept a flower from that
day by the creek,
but the once delicate
dainty flower is now
withered and falling apart,
and it leaves me with the
remembrance that not
all good things last.