in Papa’s orchard,
where you came to me as a long lost friend,
where we picked the greenest of apples,
and selected the reddest of strawberries,
where we laughed and laughed until our stomach ached,
making memories in the blasting heat,
returning home to rinse and repeat,
sometimes it came to me as a dream,
lucid, but still very distant,
and just as i said before,
i would take a bullet in the foot,
just to pick apples with you again,
in Papa’s orchard…
Nessa 🖤
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