hey, it’s me, open up

He felt like a small bag of Gushers,

partly opened, stepped on,

goo flowing from the sides

Some got stuck on your sole

You turned the knob

Although the door felt your knock,

it looked through you

and remained closed

when you ran down the steps,

rain pouring from your eyes

I promise you

that door still remembers

your touch

His body is folding

unto itself like an origami piece

because he is nervous

with hands under his thighs

He is fragile paper you opened,

but he turned out to be blank

and indecisive

When you get past

thinking that perhaps

there’s a chance

to write on him

something of your own,

the realization will come

that it was not writer’s block

but his own weightless words

wandering off the page

that kept him lost and empty

You’re scared he will

keep opening your heart,

ripping and mending it,

week in,

week out

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"Streetcar" revels in tragedy, emotion