Writer’s Sabbatical

At first, it felt like… a pause.
A temporary setting down.
A favorite mug waiting in the unran dishwasher.

Then, it felt like… a lost set of keys.
Something I’d put down in a rush
Without a plan for where I’d pick it up again.

Now, it feels like an old apartment address.
Somewhere I could get to if I tried.
Somewhere distantly familiar but no longer home.

And I worry that someday it might feel like a page out of a photo album.
A journey once taken, now a remember when.

Blackout Poetry #1

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Writer’s Block

rain

The first

summer

gray rain

came and

I was

glad for

a while,

only

my pen

and paper

didn’t

know it.