Sisters (Written June 1)

Sisters

 

A small column of alabaster,

Hollowed out, sits empty

On a table by the window.

 

A girl, perhaps eighteen

Or nineteen, scribbles a note

On the back of a postcard

 

And props it against the vase.

She takes one last hard

Look around the room.

 

What had been her sanctuary

Now feels more like a tomb.

The person she loved

 

Is not the person she thought

She was. Loved or unloved,

To leave her is to die.

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