365 Days of Poetry: Day One-Hundred and Six

let me dream of mourning.
and have it not be real.

I remember the last time we spoke.
I remember how to feel.

There are not many I call bro.
You were one of three.

I pour shots upon a grave.
I made to make it sink in.

But no liquor dulls the pain.
Of you being taken from me.


About June Faramore

Writer of fantasy, mainstream, and young adult fiction. Poet and sketcher. Mother. I read a lot and love cheese. Guitar playing singer-songwriter. I also enjoy stepping on the cracks in the sidewalk. View all posts by June Faramore

this side, that side

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