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Hi, constructive criticism is my best friend. Here's a piece of short prose (195 words) with a twist. Actually, you tell me, does it count as prose or poetry or somewhere inbetween? Anyway, go mad. Tear it apart. Thank you.
...
Cold light filters through the window on the last day. Two pairs of eyes meet. Mine: blank, fill with desperation, that fades, and they're blank again. The desire to make the last month MEAN SOMETHING. Say anything to thaw the atmosphere.
The words are croaked out by him first, looking down at her as she lies in his arms. Voice scratchy from a night of crying and drinking cheap cider. Her mouth drops a little as those words attack her senses. Goosebumps, butterflies and all the other cliches.
Somehow she says it back. And she doesn't know if she means it but it's the closest it's ever been to the truth for
her, so that has to MEAN SOMETHING.
because even if those words aren't true she does feel does care doesn't want things to change just wants to have the time
the time
the time back
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