i was writing a poem about waiting, about delusions of anticipated arrivals and denied certainties of absence. i was hoping to finish it before August ended, for more reasons than one, more as a sort of remembrance than a random deadline.

i could not finish the poem. something was lacking. something was still bound to come and complete the emotion, synthesize the thought. i thought at that time that i would never be able to  finish it.

and then that’s how i found the ending i needed.

———————-

 

You have a key to the door. And if you call, you know I will answer. 

 

 

 

 

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