One Act Poem
I fell in love with her sorrows.
We shared a mask that we spoke through,
a mail-box for wordless hungers.
Passion maimed us,
even I shed tears, sensing
a Puccini last act approaching.
She read herself in my face.
I gave her news;
long-range forecasts
of more disappointments to come.
She phoned her mom.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2019
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