This Act of Writing

You are a writer,

so you know

that it is a terrible thing–

this act of writing.

You make yourself vulnerable with every word.

Even more so with poetry.

You must distill the truth about yourself

into something quickly consumed

and easily judged.

Few things scare me,

but this baring of the soul

is exquisite anguish.

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Song of the Cicadas

Sometimes I can still feel

Your fingers tracing lazy circles

On my shoulder

Your arm draped around me

On a summer’s night

The taste of honey and whiskey

On my tongue

The song of the cicadas

Humming beneath the lines of Shakespeare

As we watched a play in the park

A phantom touch

That feels like yesterday

And not years ago