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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.


a reminder.

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