In the end, we were
Strangers,
Poems like letters,
The first sound you heard,
And listened,
Not to construct a bridge,
But the way a curious child
Follows a string of notes
From a woman’s voice.
I keep singing for myself,
Think of everyone but you.
By S.L. Sweede is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.