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.
Advertisements
Very beautiful. Sad reality.