le morte

Your left hand grows stronger
from emptying the fullness of yourself.
Ambidexerity is born of loneliness,
Necessity the stillborn of intention.
What we could have made
is lost to ennui and entropy.
Illumined panes cast
Kinkade illusions,
Much to be desired,
little to be attained,
Match girl fantasies flicker out.
There are a finite number
of chances to love before
the phosphorus scrapes from
the matchhead and we are left
in the cold with the stale
smell of sulphur
and abortive romance.

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