December 1952

I am staring at the ceiling.

The eyes you loved,

don’t blink tonight.

You wed your hands,

to the soft skin of my neck,

then carry me across the threshold,

to the living room.

You love me so deeply,

that I fall into the floor,

under the insulation,

taking all your secrets,

to my graceful grave.

You lay,

sometimes,

on the bare boards,

covered in my clothes,

asking the air for my perfume,

pleading in pathetic whispers,

for me to forgive you.


Read My Books

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RECENT FREE CREATIVE WRITING COLLECTIONS
Drowning In Us
What Ever Happened To Baby Jen?
Notes To My Muse

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