The subtle line between
Faith and turmoil draws
In me a fire every time.
She was a lemon drop
In the spring, sour at
Best and seldom sweet.
He was always brittle,
A certain tautness to
The way he snapped like
Some vile-ridden snake.
Lashing out and clawing,
Tearing deep without
An inkling of shame
In his withered soul.
She wore silence like
A crown, and taught
Me to do the same.
Always cautious,
Foreboding and
Serious as if fickle
Emotions held no
Power or place.
I was an embodiment
Of a Georgia peach,
Distant in reality and
Brimming with a tart
Sweetness under rough,
Fragile, and scarred skin.
The former shell of
My hollow youth
Resides within me,
If you read between
The vacant lines.
. . .
You were either
A dusted peach or
Faded lemon grass.
Who are we, now?