The air turns cold,


and your words contract as my probing shrivels. 

You misunderstand my questions, and I misunderstand your need.

You ignore my need to talk while I ignore your need for silence;

and so we sit pretending,

while the air turns cold.

About apronheadlilly

wife and mother, musician, composer / poet, teacher, and observer of the world, flawed Christ-follower
This entry was posted in Photography, Poetry and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

6 Responses to Brittle

  1. susanpoozan says:

    That’s very depressing, I hope you have cheered up now.

  2. belocchio says:

    Evocative words – Beautifully written

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