The shrivelled snail and I
played noughts and crosses
until slowly her cinnamon mind
began to dry and
we crushed her shell.
We liked to think she was grinning.
When she died,
I did not wipe one tear
but tore a section of paper
from a pad
and covered it with crosses.
This is an intriguing piece Tabitha. Your use of the one line stanza as a bridge shows attention to timing.
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