This morning,

I got rain on the spine of her book

part of me thinks she’d like that

she’d find it fitting

it’d match the rainfall of her world

the storm of her soul

so deeply felt,

so beautifully expressed.

I looked up what she looked like

an old photo with these full pursed lips

like she could barely contain the words

locked behind her teeth –

she looked thoughtful

like her mind had the same pauses,

the same punctuation as her writing.

I wondered if she felt like me

frustrated her words only decorated

the fragility of her own papers –

her whole life only five published works

out of her 1775 masterpieces

her 1775 genuine expressions of humanity.

This morning,

I wrote her a love note

folded into a square

and watched the rain in the street,

carry it into the sewer.

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