The forest still whispers your name

Her death is a shadow, a memory on my wall   the cobwebs catch the bitter dust once a year, in August when the moon is full   and the room is empty.   She seeps through the cracks in the brickwork brushes my hair, asks me for a cigarette     dances on Friday night, drinks at the old rec, scents of youth on her lips where the blood dried.     The shadow lingers   for a moment, as her bones fall   to neat piles of ash on my bedroom floor   and she is gone, no more a smile but a whisper- of confessions, hidden     amongst murderous trees, evermore.

Written by Missy. (Miss_Sub)