Leaving the wheat with the chaff. This is not your mother’s poetry.
A tenuous magic
exists this morning,
as we lay in bed
daring not to speak,
move, or even hardly breathe,
lest the spell be dispelled
at the slightest stirring.
hello. i too write poetry, and i wanted to compliment you for describing what could’ve easily turned into a cliche sceneario, but you managed to keep it short and honest (to the point where i could visualize it and kind of felt intrusive)
so bravo! wonderful piece.
Thank you. Intrusive spying isn’t all bad is it.
that is a very true poem Julio
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