The Poet

He made me return to writing poetry.

When we talked, it wasn’t violins that played, but sonnets that whispered on his lips.

I could feel the letters moving in my heart, not yet taking shape but there, waiting to be released.

He had been everything I asked for.

And yet…

We were here. Letters, locked.

Silence discharged.

Heart heavy while I put up the front outside.

Inside, the letters were there.

Waiting…

انتظار

Attendant

to be released…
He left the key to the lock as he walked out the words tumbled behind him. Followed him out the door and up the street. Their shape taking root in a poem. The words in a multitude of languages all linked by
Love, حب, amour

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