Yesterday I warned her, “His book cover’s scarred.”
His dedication cryptic: “To Annie who left.”
He has pages missing, tattered edges.
He’s a damaged part, not whole,
no genre, part fact, part fiction,
enigmatic and tragic.
Today I implored her, “Forget this man!”
“He’s feeling without voice,
stories without endings,
unable to share,
unwilling to risk,
closed and shelved,
His due date expired.”
But she renewed.
“Don’t Ask. Don’t Tell” is from Wisdom of the Ages: What Age Has Taught Me.
Smoky Quartz 