In silence
I found a mature home
not in need of my touch.

Reminded me of wild flowers
blind to pursuit
yet being and beckoning.

My dear,
who lead a trail
for Summer’s steps highlighted
by Moon’s gaze to the
front of my withdrawal?

I said,
if photographs are wrinkled
by flood of tears
I couldn’t imprison
then they were meant to fade;
alongside their attachments.

Published by Sia Morweng

I'm Sia, and you're my new friend.

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