At first, he would come to me

like lightning on the rain.

We made love with fire and flame,

At the beach-house, under showers,

Quiet, by the fireplace,

Cider and dancing flames.

Every day,

Then every other,

I showed him worlds and dreams,

A thousand suns, a million moons,

And things he never thought he'd feel.

And he gave me, his breathless touch,

His fingers sliding just along,

Until my heart leapt fearfully,

And through his hands, I felt his beat,

Just as fearful, just as strong.

And then he came naught for a week,

and when we danced, ' was not the same.

His eyes, no fire; his heart, no throng,

He cared but little for my song.

What had I done, so awful wrong?

Why was I not good enough?

I know that I was not the first;

I hardly care, but for the song,

For the passion, thirst, and fire,

'Why' matters not; I only long

To feel his to touch, his soft caress,

Just once more! I beg, I ache,

A single glance, a thought, I'd take.

But he thinks naught; I know not why,

He lives his life, and I live mine,

My only fire has ebbed and died.

So here I lie, cold and forlorn,

My spine untouched, my page unworn,

My cover closed, with it my heart,

Upon his shelf, forgotten, dark.

I wrote this because all the books I've left unfinished bother me.


I loved this.

posted by rob05c: 1611 days ago