We always knew our days were numbered
finite and measured.
I always knew I wasn’t a choice
the kid with balled up fists
last to be picked.
We were lucid dreaming
rolling in grass of defeat
running
fingertips flexing, caressing denial.
I struggle to shift
the grip of your arms
safe and secret
we knew needed to be buried.
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WP #4: finite
Link your response to this prompt below.
Beautiful! But sad, as though you’re nostalgic for the present, and longing for it before it even ends. I loved this. 🙂
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Aw thank you ☺️ Being sad before something ends appears to be a recurrent theme at the moment…this is my therapy 🙌🏻
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That’s sad, Kristiana… I’m sorry something is ending. Writing does help us get through it, but I wonder sometimes if we shouldn’t enjoy every bit of it while it lasts.
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