Crumpled – by Cristina Burlacu

Your shadow

stretches

along the waves of

Egyptian cotton,

your scent

woven

in the silky fabric,

blended into

the smooth grey.

Your heat

pools

in the bowl-shaped depression

where your head

has been,

next to mine,

two craters of

already dull

meteors.

 

«À tout jamais…»

your whispered pledge

still

limps

through the air,

empty like

mirages

in the incandescence of the desert,

deafening

in the silence around,

mocking me.
cristinaburlaquBorn in Romania and currently living in Canada, Cristina Iuliana Burlacu is an office worker, a wife and the proud mother of a six year old bundle of joy. From time to time, she writes. Her work has appeared in the Rusty Nail magazine, the Vine Leaves Literary Journal, the Vine Leaves Best of 2015 Anthology, on the Every Day Fiction, Wordhaus and Expresso literary sites.

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