Her thoughts wander to life’s little quandaries
as claret fire warm her lips and loosens her thoughts.
No amount of wishes can make right the wrong turns
or undo the choices made which brought her here.
Wondering gets one nowhere
except trapped in useless dreams.
Each night the same, fine dinner, fine wine
passing conversation back and forth like cards.
Little thought given to any of it
only idle contact without affection.
Closeness breeds weakness
an imperfection in sensibility.
To the minds of some, two are halves of one
but not closed in these ruddy walls.
Here one lingers, isolated and remote
barely casting shadows to affirm existence.
A second poem flew of my fingers today, so I had to post two for the same prompt. Giving due honor to e.e. cummings for the snippet “two are halves of one”.