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The Anticlimax MAG
June 1, 2016
This is the silent anticlimactic pang
Of snow that has stopped falling,
It is a mundane hunger
When I think of your name,
Crawling up my stomach and into my brain,
I bleed when I think of the games
We used to play as children and how
Your eyes crinkle when you smile.
I realize this is the empty feeling
Of missing someone;
You are the sun-tinted swing set
On a summer afternoon and
I am a winter morning in bed.
© Alana R.
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