Sonnet by L.J. Gallagher
On a winter eve, wrap me in down-feathered sleeves, Take my hand and make me your wildflowered amnesty. Distance is vicious, but chronology is wicked; Miles can be bridged in letters and calls But we still lack a way to close gaps in time. Your warmth my morning fantasy: so out of reach. Listen to the leaping flames' faint whistle, The ashen scent of forgotten fights we both lost. The creamy softness of your cotton henley tee Used to make casual rest a secret heaven. This time, your back to my chest on the bathroom floor, I ask you, crying, what made you a coward. Your unsteady reply: you should have fought for me.
L.J. Gallagher is an investment banker and creative writing alumna of Villanova University. She resides in New York City, and most enjoys writing about coming of age, nature and queer relationships.
