Unrequited

In that small place between loss and hope,

unrequited stands, childlike, furrowed of

brow, grimy hands clasped on tight chest,

fingernails picking at frayed embroidery,

pulling at faded threads, unravelling the

truth of what was, teasing apart the form,

reducing it to tangled, loosened beauty,

making it impossible, to recognise what

had once been contained in the tight

stitches of grace, where joy sang in bright

colours, and contentment was held in sure

threaded peace; lost now, as if it had never

been and could never be worked back

restored; could never in fact, be requited.

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About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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