Fresh Widow

always a near miss.
a meter per second away
from a chance encounter.

the words i would share,
the courage i would bear,
that i would not
the time i’m there.

overcome
by acrobatics
of nervous antics—

how did i get this way?

a hopeless longing
with our heads too far
from our hearts.

there’s a spirit in the staircase,
and i wonder…

if i whispered
even an inkling
of my mind’s fixation,

would you do as you should,
and leave?

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