Sometimes, late at night,
she would whisper stories to the star-shaped pillow
beneath her head
by the glow of a lone streetlight.
She thought that she would be an ideal person
to share a bed with:
quiet, still, warm.
And good at telling stories.
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
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1 comment:
In addition to being a lovely poem,
this
could be the opening
of a fantastic novel.
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