What love isn't is Where it isn't

we all have stories
we'll never tell
and those blank pages hold
the empty space
where love should be
only isn't
we all keep secrets
with locks and keys
like pocketfuls of shadow
within sore hands, which are
grasping, waiting
for some source of light
to chase away the darkness
we all dream of love
to show up at some point
and fill those gaping holes
which splatter our hearts
with vacancy
As long as we hold back
from love's burning flame,
we'll  remain in a pit of smoke
and despair
and the stories, the secrets
the bitter-bound locks
will be left to exhaust
any hope that surrounds
Then, as long as you wait
there will be no more chance
to fall back into love
and be full once again.


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