Stop. I’ve said too much
to you. Stop. Like smoke,
I hold traces: conversations,
finger tips along my arm.
Stop. I cannot. Stop.
Love crushed me. Stop.
Still you run rampant
through my poems. Stop.
For years without reply.
Stop. I want you still
To say something. Stop.
What vague answers
Can I give you? Stop.
Other than this. Stop.
(November 21, 2018)
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