by Ivory Nicholson

The moss grew thick where you touched my skin,
soft as secrets, slick with sin.
We met in the hush, beneath willow shade,
a cathedral of green, where no vows stayed.

Your name was a ripple I couldn’t still,
your hands, a ghost of something real.
I wore your scent like a second spine,
hid your letters in the roots of pines.

You spoke like the moon had taught you how,
in riddles, in reverence, in “not now.”
And I, foolish, barefoot, breaking bloom,
let your shadow thread into my loom.

We were not saints, nor safe, nor sane.
We loved like drought, like fire, like rain.
Now the lake holds every lie we swore,
your wedding ring rusts on the forest floor.

Still, it grows through my ribs each spring,
still, I dream of your mouth like a prayer, like a sting.

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Ivory Nicholson is an aspiring poet and writer from the Youngstown, Ohio area. She has been writing since the age of nine and is currently studying Literary Arts. Her work blends the quiet precision of a stargazer with the heart of a storm, exploring themes of longing, memory, and the fragile spaces between silence and sound.