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by Lynette Mejía
I remember how we walked that day,
feet sinking into grey mud, cold wrapped
around us like one another's skin,
your breath hovering ice suspended in air.
Blood to blood,
the words took shape and stood, trembling,
between us, though whether we bore blessing
or curse I don't recall, for I craved only the sound
of your heartbeat, only the touch of your hand.
Lynette Mejía writes science fiction, fantasy, and horror prose and poetry from the middle of a deep, dark forest in the wilds of southern Louisiana. Her work has been nominated for the Rhysling Award and the Million Writers Award. You can find her online at www.lynettemejia.com.
Photography: adapted from Frost in my garden, by Ian Kirk.