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.
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.