#3

In the stillness of the middle,
when I have no you to touch, I busy
myself by washing my hair, learning to
cook and knuckling down on the bathroom grout.


a drinking clam in bed, remembering hands
that moved me better than I know how to move
myself. Years pile and I learn
there is more wait than have, more
pause than play
more days that dawn
alone, more blinding
in-betweens.



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© 2018 Monica Lewis