The Glass.

I purr her name


but dare not turn the page

to read the words,

preferring to believe

the past is present in the future.

I heard her playing


beneath the window,

but the room, of course,

was empty;

not even the piano.


She walked among the flowers

depicted on the wall. She wished

the curtains closed so she

wouldn’t see the lawn

or his face appearing,

briefly, at the glass.

20 thoughts on “The Glass.

    1. Ha, yes, I suppose it is – I seem unable to escape my subjects (and why should I?). You are spot on, of course, Ingrid. Coincidentally, or not, I joined a creative journaling class last week – which is right up my strasse, naturally, and hopefully will kickstart me! Thank you xo

      Liked by 1 person

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