missed prompts…

Every day starts the same…

ruminate about my coffee not made

my bills not paid

the size of my thighs…

the letter from me to you stuck in my pocket

And when I walk down the street and

feel you on my neck

miss your hands in mine

I remember all those mornings we lingered with legs wrapped in legs tightly

and we planned futures –

we would have silver hair and every morning we’d

drink our coffee on  porch swings

the bills were all paid

and I’d never worry about the size of my thighs anymore…

your fingers would strum that old guitar and I’d hum softly

completely out of tune…

But every morning starts the same…

and I feel  nervous everywhere, always –

my thighs are slowly leaving me

those bills still aren’t paid and now

every morning I have to make my own coffee

 © 2017 erin hoffman – all rights reserved

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