Reach


The house is still.

Empty rooms soaked in midnight.

Aching lyrics raw inside melancholy notes, seep sigh into weary, lonely bones.

Waiting is the game.

Night after night,

Her fingers reach out.

Grasping blindly into that saturated midnight.

Seeking comfort from the strong arms and callused hands of the one,

who does not yet know her name.

Chelsey Whitlow

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