I haven’t written poetry in a really long time.

But tonight, I did.

Kind of.

It is an ache that does not wane,
does not abate
like the moon caving in under the cover of dark
It persists: a winter cough–
deep set and rattling my ribcage with each breath

It is an ache that does not go away,
not on bended, scraped-up knee,
not even if I pray,
It squeezes me in the arms I do not want,
holds me,
whispers it will never let me go,

my jealous lover that has never loved.