Creative Writing

Closure. [Freeform Poem]

That day, I held in my hand a formless pine.

The song in my head wove out this wonder for the pimples on your nose,

and the sky in your eyes.

In a sun-stricken setting,

in a lonely train.

On the well-lighted street

at the turn of the night –

that year-old colour suddenly dulled.

Today is the first of winter,

but this is your second.

 

Why does it disgust me?

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