Seven hundred and three

On days like today when i’m feeling especially

low, my prozac like

seven hundred and three

teeny drones, struggles

with the weight of a

sodden wool blanket.

Exhausted and smelling of wet sheep, everything

tingles from the edge

like steam evaporating from tea. it is almost

easier to picture feeling

than to actually feel.


by Clementine Yost ©


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