August crushed the last bit of puss from my blisters.
It's true:
I miss her.
I must
resist making a fist around her wrist
and blissfully persist in existing as if
nothing is amiss.
No specifics.
No 'for instance',
nor mincing words. Since
I built this fence, events
have sensed expense extensively.
And now that you mention it,
I have ventured past these borders
toward her more than one occasion
and if you track these steps back over black
resistant distance,
they'll insist on misspent summer days,
hummingbird crazy,
bent on devouring flowers.
I bowed and was burnt when I kissed her.
August crushed the last bit of puss from my blisters.
How does one go about making love to an entity made of fire?
Comments
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Wow Poet ...
Whatever happened to you since we last saw?
If you miss her, please go to her. What are you waiting for?
Passionate poetry as always.
I loved the frustration spilled in poetry. Such is life ... and healing.
Love
Myra
-
Lovely
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