Never-Ending Love

Her name is all that is left to me now, her face already
Badly blurred, and the daily ache of longing gone;
A name to toss into the stack of all the others, loved
And lost, who ceased to matter long ago. The liars
Say the first receives a special place. She's always
Loved, but mine means nothing anymore, an owlish
Thing, somebody's wife. I cried to think I'd never
Have her, haven't cried or thought of her in decades,
And this latest one? In months, and not too many,
I believe I'll struggle to recall her name.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 23 times
Written on 2012-03-30 at 00:48

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