The lingering note of your request for a poetry written through my hands darkened the mind I already wanted to trash. The soulful indigo static it would create stirred and killed the living leaf in my bones. Why would you want to fade from my head?
You used the weakness I owned – verses of a wounded yesterday; you already knew I did not treasure time to keep them. Incineration and ashes were what they deserve.
“Leave me a poetry before the morning comes.”
Together with the poetry would be a piece from the inside.
How I hoped we had semicolons.
WORD COUNT: 100
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