he stares out the window
at a memory of a tree
cut down years before
he regained faith
i’m impossible
his words leave fog
on the cold glass he faces
she crosses an ocean
places her hands
one on each shoulder
presses herself
into his back
resting her cheek
against his shoulder
i know baby
softly as though the words
would lift themselves to his ears
she traces the outline
of a bird in the mist
then i will love you
impossibly
This entry was posted on February 3, 2013 at 1:20 pm and is filed under short story, Writing and Poetry with tags art, baseball, bigfoot, birthdays, cake, christianity, criminal activity, elvis, fire, gangster, god, harold camping, homecoming, jersey shore, liquor, love, love lost, miracles, music, new jersey, pagan, parks, partical physics, patriotism, philosophy, poetry, red sox, religion, sasquatch, satre, sex, short story, suspense, sweet memories, thug, trains, travel, USA, wildlife, wombats, writing, yeti, zombie. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed.
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February 3, 2013 at 2:18 pm
You write so beautifully!
February 3, 2013 at 2:47 pm
thank you for your kind words.
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