Unrequited Love

bedroom

When my love feels you,

It bashfully recedes

Into the awareness of

Inappropriateness.

It stomps around alone

In a closed-curtain room.

The air is hot

The certainty of failure

Is everywhere

Like an unmade bed

And a room strewn

With clothes

None of which are yours.

The room doesn’t smell of you.

It is cluttered with false hope:

Empty open water bottles,

Portfolios, papers, books,

A tissue box on a wooden floor.

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