Welcome to this quiet nook.

Thursday, October 26, 2017

At Six Weeks

I love you, but my love has no place to turn from here;
My kisses vanish into thin air before they land.
Such sentiment as flowed through our days halts, ill destined,
Barred going forth, yet barred returning from whence it came.

This permanent futility makes for a poor game.
It cannot amuse, nor satisfy, nor sweetly end
While longing, sorrow, memory, and pain, hand in hand,
Surround and occlude each space from which you disappear.

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