close the door,
seal
your chamber,
or busy my heart
with counting books
and divvying plates,
tea cups, knives –
those menial tasks
of moving on.
For I cannot help
looking back –
at an empty nest,
a barren womb
that longs to swallow
you back into itself,
to swaddle again
its infant bourn.
Amniotic trust,
liquid hope
and all my dreams
go up in flames.
I become
a pillar of salt.
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