Wednesday, January 03, 2007

My Dear - 46

To him

To him,
staying away from writing is my gift to you,
not roses nor chocolate nor books I know you'd want to read, because I want to read them too
You lived aloof, maintaining always your disdain of all things emotional.
even though your Bertrand said,
"Of all forms of caution, caution in love is perhaps the most fatal to true happiness"
Your witty retorts, come back lines and sarcasm did well to mask all pain
Alone I tried to be let in, and stayed with all you threw at me
Alone I stayed a stranger, till the familiar bred angst and anger and anguish
as I willed myself away
Now you're gone, and nobody says a word to me about you
nor do I hear whispers or hints about your life.
only your words remain
I choose to keep them
like that box in the attic that you've not quite decided
whether it should stay or be thrown away
Oh, who would have believed that I,
(and you should know)
that I would have lost everything welcomed anything and forgotten all,
if only you had opened the door and let me in.

What have you created?
or is it I?
fated to be knocking shadowed by her past?
to be waiting for a man so strong with tender tongue and iron will,
decisive, opinionated
who makes me ache for him
is it I?
who only yesterday it seems, chatted with another,
hiding his pain and the quivers of his heart from the only one who'd never discount it.
did I give up on you? did your darkness win?
and will it win again if I choose to knock no more?


Post a Comment

<< Home