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Fresh Linens

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We used to talk for hours
while we stopped and picked flowers.

We’d return to his house to see clothes on the line.
We’d made it for dinner, just in time.

The smell of mischief reeked from our clothes.
Digging dirt from his fingernails, he covered his nose.

Numerous days were spent like these,
where my love for him grew under those oak trees.

During the rock bottom of October,
his family moved three towns over.

It’s December now, and I haven’t seen him since.
I’m surrounded by the swirl of loneliness.

Voices in my heart trigger memories of my mistakes.
I’m an idiot for never asking him on that date.

His house still sits vacant.
It’s a shame, ain’t it?

I entered that house a few days back.
The daisies were left near the mirror with the crack.

I still heard the whispers of secrets once shared,
like transparent ghosts, dancing without cares.

In the mirror I saw the red of my reflection,
like the warmth on my cheeks when he looked in my direction.

Through the kitchen window I saw the two posts,
where his mother hung laundry while the chicken would roast.

Suddenly, I heard the whir of a star.
Alas, it was him, driving up in his car.

Earlier that day I threw sadness into the wind,
and there I was rewarded with the return of an old friend.

Wiping tears from my eyes, he’d removed my sorrow.
I smelled the fresh linen at the top of tomorrow.






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