even a mere two years
sends vapors through the cracks
under my doors.
In the time-warping fog
I see words I no longer know
and people I no longer know
and shudder with a cocktail
of emotions I'd rather not mix:
guilt of mind and heart eroded.
My heavy use of pronouns
for the safety of anonymity
makes my own rambling cryptic
but with a healthy dose
of forensic archaeology
the characters come back to life
rising from the paper.
And one in particular
I'd thought was a dream
rears her head
through vivid words
I assigned her
like pearls
to prove to me now
here in my attic
that I once knew love
and can do so again.
Currently reading:
"Islands in the Stream" by Ernest Hemingway.
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