She called Sunday morning,
promising love for the sake
of avoiding an argument.
I drummed my fingers on my desk,
waiting for my conscious
to speak with shrieks and sobs.
But it cracked a migraine
through a cross-talk radio,
representing an odorless forest.
The white nose crinkled my eyes
through blurred vision.
The coast is clear
Or so I hear.
(© 2022 AC)
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