Words and feature image by Lauren Rawlings
I shed dead skin in a trail of diary
entries and old poems, snaking
through my life’s path – the
fossils of the human heart,
footprints, preserved in stone.
I watched the slow extinction of a past
girl – each leaf dropping eventually,
though new ones will grow. I read the
things she wrote and it’s peculiar – how
much she isn’t me.
The air smells fresh outside, it’s been
raining today – a comforting white noise,
but I don’t have you here to put your
head on my shoulder, and tell me about
that keep me grounded here. So my
mind takes a walk, a hopscotch, along
my stepping stone leaves or stepping
stone petals – my trail of past things
that fell from past me.
There are still pieces of her, new
owners grow from old roots. But she
was fading, waning, I knew, when I
stopped writing about him and
started writing about you.
This piece was originally published in Edition 36 of Verse. View it in its original PDF form via ISSUU.