In Writing

I am:

Staring in the well, searching for the bottom
Asleep in a vale, cheek on a lace-gloved hand, nestled in forget-me-nots.

I leave my wishes like offerings atop a roadside altar, somewhere far away, on a country lane where they’ll get washed with rain.

I haven’t stopped being grateful that you’re here, dear reader. I just need this, for now. The telling takes such a long and winding distance. It is a road best traversed in silence, a story I don’t know how to tell.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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