Once, I collected foxglove and lobelia. I still find them pressed between the words of Austen
and Wilde. I took them as keepsakes, my version of forget-me-nots. Watching the mist
disappear from the top of the moors, I waited until I only saw the moon. The sharp edge of
that once spherical crescent gently kissed the highest point whilst my shadow cast over the
grass around me, not that I saw it. My hands were dew-drenched and left a print on my skirt. I had never seen the stars freckle over the pale moonlight one by one, as if strumming a harp.
Souvenirs were taken, for me only, for my memories only. But once I am suspended between
dirt and soil, I fear those memories will sour with the interpretations of graverobbers.
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