Dear John

gaps in our conversation
could hold the Atlantic Ocean,
its waves crashing
on our harmless phrases

and our surface words
would be pulled by the undertow
into the center of our caution
flooded with the unsaid

so before the gap gets larger
I will speak of our fading love–
the way words don’t come easy
and your expression is a mystery

I used to be able to feel your skin
and know it like braille
before its transformation
now I’ll take my explorations elsewhere

your coffee is on the kitchen table
iced
no sugar
just the way you like it

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About savannahlyn

I write to articulate what my tongue cannot
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