Dry Spell
I’ve been pumping the handle but it’s spitting out dust.
I grind away my eraser until the ferrule rips the empty page.
In the back of my mind, fragments pile up in a heap of worthless used parts.
Running my hand across every rough surface, every smooth groove, feeling every bump and every gorgeous imperfection; but my heart shrinks like leather in the sun, pulling taut my right hand, rendering it inarticulate. How does a doubter pray for rain?
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