Ancient languages

I would send you primroses, you know,
tongue tumbled posies, feathered messages on air,
that affair once inferred now distilled and bottled,
fermenting on the shelf at your Mums.

I would send you primroses,
where Victoria, who knew your name,
would labour it echoing
into an unaccounted room,
staff only coming to re-turn out the lights.

I would send you primroses,
one for every day my heart has seemed astray,
you left believing I was indifferent to your face,
displaced from my garden, rested at your door,

a forevermore.
Written by ImperfectedStone (The Gardener)
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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