Calendar Pages

Sorrow paints my day with a vinegar kiss
like handprints in mud,
it’s temporary.
It’s permanently ingrained in dried cement.
The words carry a season of loss,
and letting go takes the breath out of me.
An empty chair at all the tables will be the death of me.
I took a pill,
flipped the script,
But the calendar comes back
to stare me down.
The days haven’t changed in months.
I haven’t changed in days.
A phone call goes unanswered,
and the ring grinds nerves.
A priceless piece of mind changes time,
but the best part of my day is missing,
but it’s better where you’re going anyway.

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