teases amid the white,
leaving us to guess
what's been omitted,
cherry-
picking its many biases,
filtering out the
disparaging in every
book and movie review.
See it there, at the start
of a neutered sentence,
as though the initially
penned words
were never scribed,
not critical enough to share,
like lifting a stylus
above the grooves,
lowering it precisely
into the record
after the opening verse
has been sung,
singling out the chorus
as if that alone
were more than enough.
I was recently told
I was doing it wrong,
failing to leave a space
between this trinity
of dots. It takes up
too much room, I replied,
looks peculiar on the page.
Do not leave me
wondering what these lines
conceivably said,
in the heat
of an angry moment,
within the quote
of a love confessed,
this trail that leaves
the ending to conjecture,
a search for the
discarded
we were never supposed to know.
Andreas Gripp
RF Image
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