Unrequited love is a
a chaff creature coming in through a
locked keyhole,
reluctant to leave
as it sits heavy upon the chest,
spinning flax into the
come-hither thread
for our heartstrings
while we lay motionless,
paralyzed beneath her.
In the morning we see her
wet footprints
and know the tears she sobs profusely
as our own;
we know, too, to whom
such footprints lead.
How bitter her cellar haunt
as she cocoons herself in the shadows
of the past,
delegated to the dark corners
of our homes
until night returns
with its straw-doll ghost
of what never was
and what never could have been.
She is a hollowed thing
made of winnowed straw
blown in from the golden fields of
tempestuous youth,
never expelled
and never truly free.

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