Innocent

I should be content 
knowing nobody
could love him
like I do.

True enough
to have witnessed
the changing self
d r a w  o u t l i n e s
of desires
longer than
arms reach.

The center feels like a heart
compressed,
echoes collapse and
the chest pushes a thought
into wearied exile

only one 
caress could suspend
the pursuit 
to trace folds of grey matters
inside out. 

Make dreams
a solace somewhere
whispered images may be
seen tangible in a way, 
a drift made by you
moving through this life
dropping leaves

in a scent,
how I know myself. 



Painting by George Lawrence Bullied (1858-1933), 'The Love Letter' c. 1911 in Public Domain.