by Alex Scott

I remember her in mud tracks
where soles have left kisses,
in fields of orphaned daffodils,
and closed-eye dandelion wishes.

I remember her in panted breaths
from cold air smacking throats,
in songs fast enough to jog to,
and slow enough – so we won’t.

I remember her with legs crossed,
palms cupped on pink cheeks.
With laces tucked in to ankle socks
and locked little fingers, “next week”.

I remember her in car rides home
with coats as blankets for heat.
In music sweet enough to mute the sound
of engines, and empty passenger seats.

Alex Scott | @alexmadiiscott | Instagram: @alexmadisonscott
Alex is a Creative Writing undergrad at Warwick University. Her greatest loves are poetry, screenwriting and striped trousers – in no particular order. When she’s not 2am-essay-cramming, she can be found doing Editor-in-Chief duties for independent literary magazine, Patchwork. 

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