Daphne Linn

Saturday, July 17th, 1954: 1:10pm

like the small itch before the writhing pain,

humidity before the hurricane,

the end is coming

there’s no use running

a fragile family heirloom

for which no one seems to care

a quickly passing phantom

you’re not sure it was ever even there

a million cracks in the glass

I don’t know what I should think anymore

you left me standing out on the dance floor

with the best of intentions I go back

finding no difference between false and fact

why does your sympathy

sound like a symphony

that I don’t want to hear?

that hidden part of me

sounds like a harmony

that I can’t even bear

the waves lapped up on the shore

your arms wrap me up, I’m secure

we’re ignored by the seagulls

to them, we’re just more people

and did you think that day