is this really fiction

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A wall was growing between them, words seemed unable to slow the building process, separating even the places they slept. Her heart would tug and pull and slowly will her to glance over the wall, only to see the backside of him – merely a shadow in the dim room – so her head would drop once more to her pillow and she would stare toward her side table, listening to the ticking clock and wondering,

“O God, what will become of us and how long
until morning breaks and the cheek receives the stale kiss,
the daily ritual which has long lost its meaning,
warded off by this cold heart and stinging throat
and off he goes and I am left alone with my sagging heart and anxious hands
gripping the handle of this coffee mug and swallowing the gin as if gasping for air.”

something different for me in my writing. I have been laying in bed at night with emotions forming into story and characters and people and wondering if they exist in real life and wanting to let the words spill forth and form something that resonates or creates a connection

And so, this.

-b.e.

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