Held

I left you a poem in your cabinet drawer.

The poem contains nothing but spaces and scribbles and smudges of chocolate dirt. With these spaces and scribbles and smudges are wrapped sentiments of both like and hate, of understanding and anger, of good bye and hello or maybe, see you later. There are dabs of half-truths and almost wishes somewhere there. There inserted, are memories of reality and fancy, of horror and comedy, of lovely music and dead songs. Generally, the paper breathes in lovely scent; only, the words contain none but a smell that reeks and leaves one stomach-turned and hollow.

I held you in paper, like you held me in air.

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