Kind. So Gentle.

I don’t know what I see in the mirror.

A face. My face.

It’s not the light. Or the soul. Or the hope.

 

Parked in The Fort, walking to work.

Cold. So Cold.

March didn’t keep it’s tinfoil promise.

 

I dream of her. I recoil from love.

Kind. So gentle.

I want her to touch my face.

 

Maybe the afternoon will be warm.

Lost. Always angry.

I might walk to the water’s edge.

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