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Apology
​I’m sorry
that I lied,

that I kissed
another 

man when it 
should have been 

you—holding 
me, smelling

of ginger 
and allspice,

whispering
foreign words 

that had no 
meaning to 

me—except 
it wasn’t

you and I 
was happy.

Epiphany
It came to me today, this revelation of our future
apart. I sat in a coffee shop, listening to people
read poems or the works of others, some dead,
some living, and I thought, what should happen
to my poems if I died?  

I shuddered, seeing you at my desk, reading 
my poems because you don’t even read them now
and I think you’ll never want to read them--
all the other mouths, the hands
that weren’t yours, the fantasies I made up 
to replace what wasn’t there, but how are you to know
​the difference, to separate the fact from fiction?  

Then I picture you rummaging 
through my desk, finding notes 
not in your handwriting, smelling
of oceans, of musk, of not you, reaching me 
in ways I’d wished you could.
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  • HOME
  • WINTER 2022 ISSUE
  • SUBMISSIONS
    • Submission Form
  • ABOUT
  • LITTLE BLACK BOOK
    • A NOTE FROM THE EDITORS
  • SHOP