upon waking

i watched as 11:11 walked by on the clock 

hesitating every few seconds with a wish on the tip of my tongue

holding back, holding on

11:12 became a new story, i couldn’t wish that moment back because wishes can’t be contained in a well

they’re out in the open, floating, waiting for a well-meaning hand to grab them

i’m just here writing with black ink stained hands, hoping someone can read between the lines

waking up the poet.

M.

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