No Chance of Showers

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her desk bends, wilting from the piles of drafts of incomplete memories;
a small waft of cedar rises from an old deteriorating bible cover.

her phone rests, sleeping, ignoring all incoming calls, all questions.
the gray floor carpet seems vast, lacking indents from two bodies
sitting side by side, holding hands, poking fun at the other.

she stabs at the moist, just cleaned fabric with dry toes, searching for vital signs,
straining to remember the voice that once showered her, complimenting
her imperfections along with her achievements.

but it seems that the sky is clear, and there is no chance of showers closing in today.





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