A sip of iced garden
mint chamomile tea
and she wants
to believe in more
than the dead
kit below her building
stoop, the fluid
filling her father’s lungs,
the beautiful five
o’clock shadow
framing your face. Mid-syllable,
she comes to. A trance-induced
dialogue snaps
shut. She blinks. Assesses
her surroundings
with fingertips cooled
by glass perspiration. Who
have I been talking to? She asks.
Who will answer? A murmur
behind a smile and she disappears
through the wall
becomes a door.
Wow. Great writing. Thank you for sharing.
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Thanks for your kind comment, Wesley. I appreciate it.
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