" . . . "
He passes her the pen
he’s been turning
between his fingers,
its barrel warmed
by indecision.
She takes it,
aware she’s touching
the instrument
of whatever thought
he hasn’t voiced.
The atmosphere,
skews enough
to edge along
unprinted dots
. . .
-
Author:
crypticbard (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: August 9th, 2026 05:08
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 1
Offline)
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