T. M. Isaac
Blasé - Poem by T. M. Isaac
She seems willingly weary.
Lost, it seems, inside insistent thoughts;
time spiraling, twirling up and down the room as she hums
monotonous, muffled, tunes to herself.
Unuttered words, confined.
Rose-red lips dancing nervously, shyly,
as she blows half memories out, away;
eager to forget how to remember.
Perhaps she was looking for some answers:
a name, a place, a trace of happiness.
Perhaps she tried to whisper in my ear
too softly for me to notice or to care.
The sounds amass as she passes our stale
pictures hung so callously on the wall,
passing the unbearable whiteness.
Passing through fields of scattered thoughts,
half written notes and half composed love letters.
Faltering as she dwindles
Back and forth
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