Vintage

Standard

I meant these words to be hard-hitting.
Impactful, the kind that would make you sit up and listen.
But as they wrote themselves,
Reality buffed and dulled any hope that tried to glisten.
You, who chooses words concisely
As though selecting from a choice of vintage wine
Skimmed your fingers over my label
And spared not a second of time
To pause,
To look at me, read my notes
And hints, suggested meal accompaniment.
So instead, my words lie dormant,
Under a spell of unwilling ears.
I cannot force you to feel what you don’t,
But that doesn’t stop me from lingering here.

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