the edge of the desk

There’s a fine line
Between this and that
Here and there and now and then and
never
again and and again and again

There’s a fine line
of dust
on the desk,
of trust

your hand
loving
gentle
around my neck
of memories
they only just left.

There’s a fine line
Between the implored
and the ignored
and the
“what the hell is this all for.”

A persistent ghost from the past
haunts my dreams,
even though you did,
finally?
maybe?
pick yourself up off the floor.

There’s a fine line,
between love,
and love a little too late.