i let my crazy thoughts go astray.
to find the words laid a-floating
in the balmy air of the evening.
as i let my mind fly away,
i notice the familiar northerly way.
it goes to him, whichever way.
as i hold my pen to write,
i know who comes to light.
only him again in sight.
whatever i do to banish him,
i know i’ll never really win.
all pretensions fade within.
although i write of many themes,
most of them refer to him.
it shall always be about him.
if loving you can never be;
then let me suffuse
my pen, instead.
i’ll use my love, for you;
as the ink that pours forth,
the longing and regret
that accompany my nights.
ah, love that wets my eyes,
make these words reach
its object, while he sleeps.
perhaps, that can help him
perceive the exacting agony,
he unfolds, in me.
mayhap, you’ll succeed;
then he’ll see why my loss,
of him, has deeply damaged me.
perchance, your whispers
shall even convince him,
to come back to me.
i shall write about your pain and mine;
our love and hate poured now in rhyme.
we come alive in the hearts and minds,
of men and women, who read my lines.
the stark reality of a love that can never be,
may now only be a reason and a source for me.
when random thoughts enter the dance
that my hands commence by chance.
the graces that a love–once pure–can now bestow,
are these emotive utterings that grow;
as i painfully write in poetry and prose.
a love forgotten comes alive–magnifies the loss.