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There IsThere's a storm outside
whipping and tossing about the limbs of the oak tree
leaving my stomach in knots that painfully contract and relax as they please
I hope the wind
There's a girl I know
laughing and smiling at me with ever changing eyes
leaving my heart in desperate longing for her from sun up till sunset
I hope she will
There's a friend I had
coming and going as she pleased throughout the year
leaving my self in a sea of loneliness that rose and fell frequently
I hope it will
There's a yellow flower
blooming and brightening when the sun comes to set
leaving the stars above with nothing but second hand beauty
I hope the blossom
Bo.When Lindsay was born, Bo was there. Standing beside her mother, he was the first thing she ever saw. But he was not her father; her father stood on the other side.
Bo was there until the very moment she died.
The sun shone bright through the windows of her pink-laden room. She loved pink. And black.
“Because Bo is black,” she’d told her parents.
Her imaginary friend, they soon concluded.
“Bo is all black,” she described one night as her father tucked her in, “His skin and his hair and everything. He doesn’t talk a lot.”
Her father frowned.
“He sounds scary.”
“He’s not,” she insisted.
Bo sat on the bed and said nothing.
Her father kissed her good night and turned out the light.
“Why can’t Dad see you?” she asked.
“Are you real?”
“Are you real?” he replied.
“How do you know?”
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