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Deadbolt
The warmth of your fingers
Caressing my shaking shoulders,
The comforting weight of your arm
Resting around my waist.
Until you closed that door.
Rotted wood and a flimsy frame
The rusted golden knob sneers at me
Daring me to open it.
But I won’t.
I claw at the cracked pine,
Burying my nails into the decaying wood,
Shredding the once white paint.
Wishing it were you.
Copyright ©
Devin Irving
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