After All, I Do Not Want It

I have always thought 

I'd love complete

solitude, the room that's left 

after all the leaves have dropped 

and begun their speckled 

leathering—And I have always 

thought I'd be if not accepting 

then at least prepared for how 

things that once shone 

with their sharp or brittle gold 

are one by one burrowing 

into the depths, from which 

we're told there can be no 

returning. But wherever light

even slightly smudges 

the dark, something in me

also comes untethered,

unguarded. It takes 

so very little: soft skin

of a peach, one feather 

torn from a wing; some

kind of grief that is 

already unfolding. 

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