Do Poems Get Tired of Dreaming?

When it snows,


We talk about weird things

the beauty of all girls

who are not in your bedroom

while we tell stories to your pillows.


Blue, you said, was the color of my eyes.


In between your pretty compliments,


What we do is fatal to the way we refuse to talk to the halcyon days on the mind.


I’ve got to find my way back to tell you why I chase snowflakes

& write poems on days it should have rained.


You race around my mind.


It’s not my fault, you’re there.


I cannot apologize for not waiting for you, first

or the first time I cried in front of you.


I fear I will never stop deserving your affection.


I just need to know why I don’t fit in your life anymore.


Alison Marie Johnston, USA

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