He wrote poems and she said she’d look them over. In her closet, dust gathered like mountain snow on the paper.
I like the dust/snow imagery. I felt bad for the husband/lover for the callous way she dealt with his work. But then I felt worse when I started imagining the poet to be her teenage son.
See, your words made me think, and that’s the most we can ask of our creations.
A story that really packs a punch.
Thank you Amy and Gayle. Your comments are awesome!
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