Her Blank Page

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By Isabelle Andres

When the words go, the writer’s loneliness installs itself,
makes its home into her head.

She is there, silent as always
only this time the words no longer flow through her veins
No longer supply her oxygen.

She sits there still and the words are within her just as always
only this time she can’t feel them cuddling her.
can’t feel them loving her.

She can’t connect to them and see that they are there just as always
only awaiting for her to wake

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