The End

  
Smiling for the lifeless other

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.”