subtle, yellow light –
the soft yolk, that is morning.
cracked over the span, ‘tween
the mountains’ spine, and shoulder.
born into the landscape, her veins
but water. rivulets, of the banks i –
often roam, and wander.
anomalous, it is.
how a human husk
still tastes, like bruises.
long after the flesh
has taken leave.
i am drinking an evening in.
one that is, longer. deeper. quieter
and still – what is now, to me
a temporary vow, between bodies
will lose itself in time.
i want to unwrite, and rewrite
letters, i never sent.
the ill-wishes and prayers
even a woman, of no god –
squeezes her hands to. before bed.
again, your skin burns—
like paper. at some ungodly hour
from the heat of a whisper.
it woke me, but i was not waking
no. not anymore.
Rebecca Andrew, is 21 years old – She is from South Africa, however currently residing in Australia. She has always believed that, there is no right nor wrong way to write poetry – it is an expression of self, and just like self – it is in a perpetual state of growth – often saplings before the trees. (Instagram: rebecca.k.andrew)