A Personal Post, in the form of a poem

It’s snowing.
You’re alone.

You fell for someone who lives
where you once did,
shares your history only by the
convenience of place.

You drove home through waves
of white confetti,
flickering headlights,
a sputtering engine.

Out there, anything could have happened.
The streetlights forget,
as do your tires
and your heart palpitations:

Cobwebs have already formed.
You are not waiting for rebirth,
but rather the moment
when you look out the window
and the bones of the trees feel like boxes,
and your heart forgives you.


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