The Fishing Line
A poem
My house had no windows
and yours, no door.
You told me nothing and I —
Caught up in a new friend,
couldn’t see why.
So we swam in the lake
and we hung our wet clothes
on the old fishing line
that we found there,
tied between twin pines.
So I sold out all my secrets
for a pocket full of dandelions
that grew under your porch.
What felt like a promise
now doesn’t mean much.
As the sun tripped past the hills,
we went our separate ways
and the next morning I was begging
for you to just tell me your name.
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