In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Oasis.”

Sometimes libraries,
knee-deep in the smell of thousands of fingers
turning pages

Sometimes stationery,
the white or pink or yellow papers
singing with nothingness
awaiting instruction

Sometimes music
symphonies dedicated to my heart
lyrics pouring out a likeness to my melancholy
or wiping it away with a rag.

Sometimes make-believe
in the written or aural or visual views
of yesterday
or never

Sometimes in the corner,
your hand the only one I want to touch me
the skin of mine you wear
will never materialize

But the comfort is always there.


Talk at me while I eat

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