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Elegy for the Unfinished

Literature 10 hrs ago Participants (0)
  • Ā 

    Ā 

    The last letter you never sent

    curls at the edges now—

    a fossil of fury inked in trembling hands.

    I keep it tucked inside the clock,

    where time gnaws at its corners

    but cannot digest the words.

    Ā 

    Your voice still lives in the dial tone,

    a hollowed-out hum that clings

    to the receiver’s plastic ear.

    I press redial like a bruise,

    listening for the gasp

    before the automated goodbye.

    Ā 

    The bed is a raft adrift.

    I map the empty space with my limbs,

    counting the inches where your heat

    once pooled like stolen sunlight.

    Now? Only the cold arithmetic

    of almost and what if.

    Ā 

    I wear your old sweater to the grocery store.

    The cashier smiles—"Nice color on you."

    I want to scream:

    This is not a fashion choice.

    This is a burial shroud.

    Ā 

    At midnight, the fridge light confesses

    to the leftovers labeled "for later."

    The mold blooms blue and patient,

    a slow requiem in Tupperware.

    Ā 

    The therapist says "closure"

    like it’s a door I can simply

    paint over.

    But I’m still fumbling for the key

    in a lock that melted

    long ago.

    Ā 

    ©  Charlie Phoenix

    Ā 

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