Drafts Folder

The screen is a window of cold, electric blue,

holding the words I can’t say to you.

Three years is a distance I can’t seem to walk,

a ghost in the hallway, a refusal to talk.

I watch the reflection in the glass on the tray,

the water gone flat in a dull, silver way.

My thumb hovers over the white, blinking line,

waiting for courage that isn’t quite mine.