by Angelique Cridland

She held my hand,
not too tight and not too soft
as our feet scoffed
through yesterday’s
orange, still sultry and damp
from the ether-curiousities
drizzled down from high.
Carressing these memories
forsook by our footprints and our
last goodbye.
Spellbound ground impressions
in the autumn forest floor, forever
golden damned.

Truth is, she never held my hand
but I could still feel
the bliss lingering on my skin –
sweet sanguine season.
As if it was absolutely real;
my toes crumpled with spring’s
fallen folios – the juxtapose –
sitting on my chair seeking reason
in their memories, curiosities,
orcherous spoors of two.
Completely overtook
as I finished and closed the book
with all the signs to pursue