Unrequited

I could write a novel
In your hesitations
A sonnet
Styled after Shakespeare himself
Comparing thee to a summer’s day
Or maybe an ode
To the way our fingers interlock
And warm the frigid night around us
But perhaps
Reality would tell me
In the prolonged gaps of silence
That an obituary
Of an almost love
Would be more appropriate

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About savannahlyn

I write to articulate what my tongue cannot
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