The Day After

Christina Strigas

The sun is in my hair

it feels gothic

to send black hearts

and truthful.

You have gone

blocked the rain

from touching my skin.

You came and went

in this caffeine rush

not reading the menu

nor my frazzled mind.

All these nonsensical words

lined up in disarray for you

written on lined paper

and uneven phrases

not a cliché but the truth.

The people here have empty

ten a.m eyes.

Do you ever feel

as if you are the only one

who can see that?

Perhaps you are a photographer

and you document souls

line them up on clotheslines

trap them in time.

Perhaps you are an artist

who paints empty faces

and sells your art

at local cafés.

Maybe you create music

on paper, in your mind,

in your garage,

or you’re like me

writing poems

and books

on your phone

in your notes

in journals.


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