overtop the mantle

stretches emptiness

like a canvas, waiting for a touch

seducing me to brush

my hand across her smoothness

but she lies flat

and will not rise to arch her back

to meet me

tis my need to fill the space, not hers

she is content to barren lie for now

unadorned, like winter limbs

no rush, no urgency,

no fear

no, it is me

stumbling on this hole

who fears the wrench, the fall

and so i rush to cover

stead of sitting down to read

the writing on the wall

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