Set before me a hundred canvases,
Call them my calendar,
And I will paint your face on the next and
The next and the next.
Ever you are there.
I shut my eyes to hide from yours,
And your laugh roars louder,
Cover my ears to find the warmth of your scent wrap around, overcome me,
Try to stop my breath, and
The soft touch of your lips resuscitates me into a life of energy
Of worth and fresh time renewed.
I love it but,
I planned to warm my grave this year,
Wander in the darkness alone,
Surround myself with grotesque silhouettes of nightmares too familiar,
Grope at the ever elusive light for a moment longer,
Hear the twisted cries of my own contorted soul torture herself in poetic,
Pointless misery, a punishment
I believe I warrant for the mishandling of love and second-chances given again and again.
I was going to be a widow to happiness evermore,
Cast myself the lead to this self-directed tragedy –
Conceited and pining,
compassionate but starving
Yet your presence won’t have it.
You feed this monster on the goodness that radiates from you with just a moment under your gaze,
And she pines not for attentions, for her ego is rewarded by mere idea of
Capturing your imagination for just a moment.
You’re too damn good to be true,
So I wonder, for the moment, if punishment is coming after all,
retribution by her own terms:
What destruction do we bring one another?
I can only fear the half of it,
Myself too eagerly running into you to find out:
I never mind for me.