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Tired now – it rains restlessness on Mondays.
I’m so sleepy I can’t hear life. But my train will still come late
and your bus will arrive early.
At the station we agree to go our separate ways.
I can’t disappear. But I can stop writing.
But even silence falls apart in February.
Little by little I learn to speak again.
With each new word I prove I exist.
I find myself in my words.
I set out each morning writing toward you.
copyright 2014
Scott
Jacobson |
