November 7, 2011

  • 28

    There's a word hanging between us,
    a present too good to own,
    too beautiful to be unwrapped.
    It's taken a hold,
    made a space in my head
       (  (  reserved  )  )
    It has implications.
    The signal of the climax,
    the beginning of the end,
    tragic.
    Too good to be unwrapped,
    lest it be true.
    I don't want that space filled,
    don't displace my assurance.
    Don't, but no,
    like an empty womb,
    this space is expecting.

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