The object

Just out of reach
The tips of her fingers brush,
But only just.

She maneuvers, contorts
Body bent out of shape, try to grasp,
But it is steadfast

If only it were hers
She would finally be complete, whole
A contented soul

She stretches, she twists
Turning herself inside and out,
But there is doubt.

Twisted, nearly broken
But the object remains untouched
She needs it too much

Hours turn to days, weeks
The object ever present in the back of the mind
Sometimes she is too kind

One day she is decided
The object will bring pain no more
Taking one last look she closes the door