How Novel
"I don't think you're going to make it schweets."
He spoke simple words with profound declaration.
As if he could really see the heaviness of my loneliness and the way the weight of it
Was making fractures. Hair line to the naked eye, but when magnified
They were canyons. And another man's name still reverberates splashed Indian paint
Off the walls. Occasionally causing mudslides, but today, words were an earthquake.
And the avalanche they effected almost crushed me. Almost.
"Almost" is the one word story of my life with no pictures.
I'm an unpublished work of fiction with too many empty pages and a ripped spine.
Because my author never really wanted me. So I'll sit here eternally.
Gathering dust because eventually he might just touch me again.
Mayhaps he'll fill me with his words. Scratching the ivory pages of my skin
With his sharpened pen and I'll grin. Stupidly.
While I bleed out sentences of him forever.
"I don't think you're going to make it schweets."
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