by Cecilia Wynn

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Alone? Never mind.

I'll talk to the space.

Imagining a face.

Gone again? Fine.

Still talking to space.

Trying to save grace.

You could ingratiate

Me to appreciate

Your tale that you've told

Over a hundredfold.

Regardless I'll listen

Always with frisson.

Don't get me all wrong.

That I might mean ill,

I just lack the skill,

To talk or prolong

With ease a sentence,

Hostage to recompense.


What more do you want?

A tighter friendship?

More frequent skinship?

I'll turn a savant,

Learning to read you

In search of a cue. 

If you start to show

That you want any more

In depth our rapport,

I'll be first to know

And make all the more

In ardor, amor.❧

*Picture not by me