Image Credit: Matias Larhag
It was where we fell in love—I did, anyway; lovely Shangri-la, waters which reflected our private world, mirroring happiness and thoughts of forever.
I didn’t mind that you were older—you made me feel like a woman of the world, and you said I kept you young. Every day shimmered…the nights, oh how they shone.
Then you were gone—winter descended, became an icecap on passion’s volcano.
I’ve returned only twice since your death. Peering into the lake, I see an old deluded relict* staring back—tears rippling down her rippled cheeks, like mourning rain unrestrained.
(*relict, archaic—a woman whose husband is dead, especially one who has not remarried)
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