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Acacia

By N.S.Clow, Aurora, IL

I stare out the vacant window, watching as the whispering wind caresses the green leaves attached to an Oak tree. Small droplets of rain crash against the window, mimicking the crash of my own tears on the empty white linen bed. The silence in the white room, all but the rising beat of my heart, impersonates the thoughts that flow through my mind. The time machine near the bed is currently turned off; it will stay off until my gelatin legs force me to stand up and carry on with my life. But my life ended once hers did.
My hands proceed to feel for the touch of her fair skin, not fully comprehending that she no longer exists. They only come in contact with a damp patch of sheets. I don’t want to believe that she will never be nestled in the crook of my arms. I don’t want to believe that I will never hear the sound of her singsong voice or the sound of her bubbling laughter as it fills the halls of our house.

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