poetry WRITING



“Where are you?” he asked

“I’m here, in my feelings.  Do you see me?” I answered.

He said he did but never came in.  I didn’t blame him, because they sometimes held the hue of recklessness, but really they were no more than a melancholy monsoon.  Maybe that was worse – To feel I’d become the cover of a book made of bread with no filling.  The thought of me must have tasted like air and left a lingering hunger for wheat, or anything fortified by nature’s struggle.

“You scare me,” he replied.

“I know,” I answered, looking away in shame. I scared myself.

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