Prose Poetry

Raindrops on a Saturday

White cars turned brown, overfilled gutters with Styrofoam plates at the forefront of the move to destroy the climate, smokes from buses jerking in an epileptic moves; me, nauseous, claustrophobic, dizzy, mentally tired; people masked up—not really—the masks are on their chins.

I think of you, of your hands running through my body; I think of your soft kisses, the ones I have to beg, sulk and pout before I get.

I think of goodbyes, sad goodbyes; I think of darkness, I think of ends, I think of no new beginnings.

When you are not here, there is nothing to begin with.

If I ever have a daughter, I’ll teach her to not love so hard. And if she ever did, I’ll be here to guide her through the darkness that follows if the hurt comes.

Black water from sewers, droplets of water from the sky. The car stops.

“Hi, Jennifer.”

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