She said it aloud, in her mind she thought, but her lips moved.
AN OBSERVATION ON THE PLACE THAT WAS RUINED
I have coffee there.
The table was far too busy laughing falsely to notice her running her words over and over again. She barely registered their laughs herself. She was writing a poem. She had to write a poem.
She used to be a poet. That’s what she used to call herself: Poet. Not pretentiously, not arrogantly, not in public. Subconsciously, in the corner of her mind where one names oneself and says, “This is who I am”. She hadn’t written since. She only drew the letter r and saw a broken cup and thought these thirteen words and grew thin (all food had ash in it) and grew weak (all thoughts had him in them) and did not smile. She had not written and it was ruining…
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