One Loose End

Whenever I believe myself fulfilled/content
(You pick the word), my mind drifts after
Erika, and I know that I'm not. The gently
Setting winter sun, the barren fields, the
River, with its icebergs, and this glass of
Bourbon, all the things I know and love,
Are empty, like cicada shells, without her
Brittle beauty here. I know she needs
Someone to tell her, “All is well,” and all
She's done is good enough. She'll see in
Time, and what I want, to be fulfilled, is to
Sense that she's softened, not so brittle, and
That she, though not, and likely never
To be, mine, has understood I care
For her, and, if she has, then I can be
Content.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 13 times
Written on 2012-01-06 at 12:25

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