August, By Jennifer Angelina Petro



Jennifer Angelina Petro



When I heard your footsteps

I dropped my book and pretended to be sleeping.


You lingered, touching the poems

On my desk.  You whispered things

Only the ink remembers.


After reading them, testing their weight,

You said the one word I longed and dreaded to hear.


I lifted my head but couldn’t meet your eyes.

And you, for your part, took my hand.







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