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March 12, 2005


Sitting here, every muscle tensed
and waiting, I whisper to you
silently "Come, pull me away from this."

I want to admit the truth
of where I am, this endless velvety dark,
this navy night sky of despair.
Joy has no home here, only
reflection and regret,
reliving my last words and how
I snapped in the face of it all.

How do I open my mouth?
How do I begin to breathe again?

Your lips press to my temple, fingers
travel to the nape of my neck,
a high tension wire singing
with unspoken fears
and you press, for a moment longer
than casual.

In that moment, during the breath
that washes across my brow,
apologies leak from my pores,
fill the air, and you
breathe them in.

SMO © Nov. 2004

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This page contains a single entry by Prosemonkey published on March 12, 2005 8:04 PM.

In which I paint myself into a corner... was the previous entry in this blog.

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