in a trope that i hate, i wait calmly for something, a piece to look into tomorrow.
like the days on swings when the sun cascaded beams on the crests of my shoulders.
it’s nothing like that, today, but a sense of urgency, in a fickle world i cannot attain.
beside the stale leaf in the wind, i will be crushed, as you take me away,
an unbearable end, singly defining my hollowness, like the top of a brown paper bag.
Jessica Frelow is a writer living in New Jersey. Her work has been featured in Versification, Trampset, Kreaxxxion Review and Emerge Literary Journal, among others. For more connect with her on twitter @thefrelow.