Keep Walking

Awkwardly, we meet. She asks me how I am.
I'm sure she knows, as all knew, once, how
Much I loved her. All knew also that she didn't
Want my love. She went away. I say no more
Than “fine,” and turn. There is no point to
Speaking of what is already known.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 44 times
Written on 2010-07-27 at 12:01

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