poetry

tho we’d dare

I wrote a poem about her once; the damned thing rhymed. She deserved more of me– tho it’s been decades, tho I was one of hundreds, thousands maybe, and I’ve no illusion she’s ever given me a second thought, and that’s alright. Most times, a fleeting touch– as each escapes into the scattered ash of night’s criminality, is all we’re gifted of another soul, a fingertip-brush over the burned-city soot, exposing the streetlamp-flicker luster– tho we’d give it tall heels and call it love as we watch its leaning shadow twitch and strut– tho we’d dare, now and again– tho we’d dare dream.

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Eric

I've come to write.

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