Widower

In the style of Thomas Hardy’s The Voice

I have touched her seen her too

All I know of her is past

The lingering aura never new

The satisfaction never to last

 

I feel her texture in the sheets

See her dance out my eye’s corner

But my hand she never meets

The senses fail a mourner

 

No one there beside me yet I push against her still

No muse to inspire me yet her beauty fills my page

Cold absence a reminder that I never got my fill

Flushed with heat and anger, filled with fruitless rage

 

Stare at our reflection

She is absent from the frame

Though she now escapes all true detection

I still love her all the same

Nymph

She has a beautiful villainous smile

I can see her in black

Even a grimace framed in her lips would be seductive

Teeth for biting

A pink lower lip

A gesture that forces a catch in the suitors throat

 

I am compelled by some force within me

Some nauseating need

To see her mouth pursed with disapproving amusement

Her chin recessed in supplication

Her cheeks flushed with passion

 

To feel her hands gliding across me

Smooth gestures easing my worried soul

Fingers trembling as if in a stream

Eyes fixed and screaming intentions

 

To draw her near

The sand meeting the ocean

Fall through my fingers

Let time forget us