The painted face,
a faithless lover;
and tired script,
this hollow banter-
this is not what she was after.
Grasping for sweet words you’ve told
with every page a wrinkle folds,
seems destined for my dusty ashes.
And what was hot
has turned so cold.
and is it sad
yet somehow safer,
flames that chew the ink and paper;
and will you hear my stifled cry,
and care enough to soon reply.
Can I regret a single moment
of all the warmth ,
and blistered torment,
and could you wish and hope forever,
reading poems I thought were clever;
yet fearing “wait”
means simply “never.”