Untitled; prose poem #7

I bought the book because I was in love with you. But now I cannot read the book because I do not know if I am still in love with you, or if it still makes sense to go on as if I am in love with you. So the book remains a captive on my shelf, for the time being hostage to my confounding and ever-changing sense of things both real and imaginary.

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2 thoughts on “Untitled; prose poem #7

  1. What if the book is a cookbook one is reading for sustenance, or an adventure guide, or a love story one is dying to find out how it ends? What if the book is in a language one hasn’t yet learned? What if the book is blank, and opening it means embarking on a journey. . . .

Art is ephemeral; so add to the pot...

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