Seashell
I have not yet written
my love poem to Lisa.
Perhaps I never will.
Maybe I'll just keep it
as the deep unspoken
prayer of my heart.
I'll cherish it, rare
and convolute seashell
the size of a baby's ear.
I'll never take it out
of the plastic box kept
beneath the bed.
Besides, Lisa's poem
would really be for me:
to console myself
for the agony of her
inevitable unrequital.
And so it always goes.
Poetry by Uncle Meridian
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Written on 2022-03-20 at 07:51
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