“Black Friday might affect these hours.”

Just shells of places.
Strangers with interchangeable stories.
Symbols into words (gestures into pains)
so few they hollowly clatter around
the Grand Central Station
after a bomb drill.
You could hear a pin drop.
The frost makes vowels of
the light that fades too soon,
onomatopoeias out of
the unrealized emotions
stamped on the crepuscular stillness.
They prayed away the drama
but not the want, and
there is no lack of resolution
for the turning of the page.
When I hesitate, it isn’t because
I left something unsaid.

 

 

 

Image Credits: Nicholas Eckhart

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