Poetry Journal February 23, 2024
He loves her, he loves her not, the man she once called her hero, calling me as she make her way north again, not as close as she once was, yet closer – he, the one who cried the day he found out she had resigned, his cub – and not, I think now – the man to whom she wrote all those painful love poems back then, though I suspected, he wished she had, if him, she would have had no need to write them, he would never have left the way that man did back then, no pain in his voice this time as there was when he told me she quite, yet a certain silence as if scared to death to mention her name or to hold out too much hope that she might see her again, reaching out to me the way I once did to him, full of uncertainty.
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