POETRY • 43
BY AIMEE HUNT They tasted sun Were met with snow I do love that little narcissus flower She is tattooed on my ribs Carved in my skin I remember the needle I cannot remember much of him I gripped the table in pain I could not cry when his soul slipped away with a “thank you” Trust me I tried Wanted to Listened to a sad song Tears wouldn’t come The daffodils came up too soon
