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A letter came a week ago. It's mutely resting between the potted ivy and car keys marking time on the table in the foyer.
It's unopened, of course, but I know what it says - I just can't make myself read the words.
I know they're angry. I know they're designed to ask in yet one more way for what I don't have to give.
I've walked by it a thousand times, even held it a few.
Maybe if left unread the words will somehow change and say what I need most to hear.
C.J. Heck
Read poems about / on: car, change, time
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