Damp Paper

March 6, 2011
I see you sit at your desk,
hands folded on your lap,
a frail bird with clipped wings.

I see your eyes gazing at nothing,
penetrating the air,
but searching for something.

I see your thin wrists,
a crisscross of pale lines,
somehow bold against the flesh.

I see a tear fall to your book,
it spreads like a virus,
and you feel as useless as damp paper.

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