I Want. . .


I want. . .

I whisper

to empty rooms

air so chilly

that words float

ghostly moths

frozen in the mist of my breath

unprepared for them to linger there

echo with meaning

give voice to hungers

I tell myself

I do not have

full of guilt


I trace the letters

with silver pink fingertips

caress the curves and lines

say it louder


I want. . .

I want. . .


Image courtesy of Pinterest

© 2018 Christine Elizabeth Ray – All rights Reserved




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