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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