the past creeps up on us and twirls her hair
she will always slip up in present's words
like a family secret, and gives glares
always watching, the swan song of miswords
breathing down your neck, desperate for details
of how you're doing and who you're kissing.
when a pair of lovers' smiles prevail,
she holds back tears, and starts reminiscing.
when nostalgia isn't sunny and sweet,
there's a sour, rotten, haggardly green fruit
that's always in the branches, you can't see;
icy eyes of hers that cut to the root -
the flowers in the arms of a devotee.
never will she live to cherish again;
the long winding road that awaits remains.
