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.
