Rotting leaves, rustic charm;
Scuttling, crawling, creepy creatures;
The chirping birds and cricket songs
Just an irritating echo of
my endless but futile attempt at
getting a grip on
the elusive emptiness within.

I saw your eyes, they spoke to me;
I heaved a heave that
Left a hole in
My now tightened chest;
For I stopped to breathe.

Rustic, the raw gaze you gave;
And I in turn,
Village girl well-bred,
Turned aside in coy bashfulness.

I walk the woods today
So rustic and raw;
I know you are here.
And I
Haven’t changed.

©Alexandra Kukunda 2015


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