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  • Writer's pictureJohn Ryan Hrebik

Alone With Melancholy

I. Mornings


I hear you,

a distant moan

dusting my ear.


I keep still—

head down,

eyes pressed shut.


My body burdened

knowing nothing keeps you

from me.


II. Afternoons


Your approach slams

the heaviest doors—

windowless rooms shiver.


Your spite funnels

a disquieting chill. Outside

the slow swath of the sickle.


III. Evenings


The ashen whisper of your voice,

the icy peeled finger pressed

against my lips.

Shhh...

a reminder.


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