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When All I Get Are Wishes
 
is it too much to ask,
to want autumn afternoon walks,
down a lane, glittered,
painted with leaves of every hue,
only dreamable by the greatest of artists?
art museum visits once a month?
a travel partner to foreign lands,
even if they are domestic and in our backyard?
is it too much to ask,
to write poetry, and verses,
back and forth,
like a swingset,
and we were little children,
pushing one another?
to finally look out a window,
at the same moon together?
hot tea before sleep,
and coffee in the morning,
to wake your sleepy head?
rather, what i get are blank, white recievers,
cold and stark,
something that all the feeling,
tends to wash away on,
and the only thing i hear,
is the tapping and clicking and registering,
of little black squares,
that, for now,
spell out and replace,
what i can't have at my fingertips.

By southernblood

© 2018 southernblood (All rights reserved)

 

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