Lucy Goldsmith (1913-1986)

Jacob’s eyes are marbles, nothing more, or so it seems, for he is blind to see the tender signs of love I show him now as he sips tea and stares off wistfully.

When our eyes meet, as if by accident, he coughs and looks away immediately. I wish my mind could enter in his thoughts to know what ills him. Lord, he frustrates me.

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