In the near future, you will want another
love poem, a request that might unnerve me.
Even this morning, after another evening
of revolt we both seem to share more of lately,
you said a disarmed heart is luckier
than a fused one. Yet again, I was confused.
Instead of dilly-dallying around about feelings,
why not just let me write something profound.
It’s really no more than printer ink on a page
than the real pores of your skin anyway,
or something like a midnight passion flower
which opens its center against all shadows
before disappearing into further darkness
and losing everything. Why chance it?
Instead I’ll write you another poem, and maybe,
just maybe, you will love me for another month.
Last edited on Thu Jan 19th, 2017 01:24 am by timmy