He bent down,
right hand on his right knee,
left hand pocketed.
What was going on?
My hand jumped to my
throat, clutching the
angel-agate rock at my neck.
Our one year gift.
Pulling it back and forth,
the rough chain rubbing
along the smoothness
of my skin. What is in that
felt box? I know, but I avoid
the question's answer.
There can be only one here...
one reply to life's inevitable
request...
No.
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