Sisters (Written June 1)



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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