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Paper stares at me
its ashen face bleached of ink.
Its emptiness a hint
that I shan't kiss you any more.

Woven wooden fibres,
pressed hard and tight,
await my nibs caress,
but I can't touch you now.

Creases - in the corner -
like laughter lines
mock my aching heart
that lives déclassé    here.

And in the emptiness that's there
unwritten are the words,
that reverberate,
inside my head,
but daren't ever be spoken.




© Allen Ansell 2022