some times i wish i could be
the paper beneath your pen
you can tell a lot about a person in
that space between a period
and a sentence's end,
and all the times you erased
the thoughts you thought alone
in order to communicate
i understand the urge
i really do
but for once, let me be
the blank page upon which you fill
your random musings
unfiltered and true and flawed
the dusty window pane forming
the glorious kaleidoscope
of sun on a Saturday morning
in winter, when things
are chilled but not yet cold.
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