Her

Seven times I asked her for forgiveness,

Seven times I was left with no reply,

as I stared at the leaves of the pink and white dogwood trees,

each with its own subtle hue,

and I picked up some twigs

and ran my fingers along their rough surface,

feeling the bumps, indentations,

cracks, perforations.

I got my knife and etched letters onto each end of the twigs,

All the while whispering and mumbling to myself,

playing out the conversation in my head,

becoming her,

anticipating me,

and then I remembered I had to get home for dinner.

 

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