Alabaster. That
thing that is aloof. That can’t be embraced though of course it can be held.
Those distances
which are sustained by an act of will. Can be created only by will and the
determination to stay separate.
And hard to love and difficult not to desire the destruction, the demolition that is, of that distance, and dust and dirt in its place, the shattered plaster, and the brief hollow exhilaration which so swiftly is replaced by shame.
And erases
no distance in doing but layers it so that that
space is extended thereby, by guilt
By shame, by
self-recrimination and remorse and by tears
scarring a cheek with channels.
What exists
between, wedged between
This stale regrettable
thing, made of errors and failures
to understand.
Always insinuating
itself, forbidding connection Which is
always
The erasure
of itself.
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