The writer’s heart can be her death

We walk to the cold beat of our soles.

We stop and collide in a chapped-lips kiss.

I stare at the blank page and hold my breath.

I graze the keys and fill my lungs again.

I fight and fail—this creative death.

And pause for dramatic effect.

Pixels and plastic.

My letters don’t form words.

You cannot be my words.

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