The woman stops, seeks, starts again, caresses
with her writing the empty spaces she cannot know.

She longs for words feverous against her ear, provoking those inner hands, fingers drawing poetry from within.

Dark moments press together, a nearness so precarious, so precious, conceits and deceits entangled—

surrounding expressions and impressions are meaningless.
The pressure builds, discomfort mounts, and so at once

she's forced to move; retreat always strangles.
There's nothing in this nothing. Only affectation strumming

The mistuned strings of a bard's long-forgotten instrument,
An apparatus crafted for courtly love, capable now of

producing only inharmonic rivalries. There's nothing
true in pretense. My will is poor at defense.