Thirty-Seven.

Past the reflections
of the window pane,
billowing slightly in
the soften breezes of
the neighboring trees,
harboring heart aches
in disguises of hope
hardened with truth;
past the melodies of
the wildflowers long
ago blooming on the
horizon, with laughter
circling like butterflies
in early June, there is
a moment trapped in
the smile of a memory,
recaptured with every
look out my window,
to the glory days of
you and I – back when
there was still such a
thing to look back on;
past the reflections of
regrets and what ifs.

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