Still Yours

Okay; I thought I'd given up.
My cards were poor, a losing
Hand, a man who'd wanted
What someone with sense
Could see was not to be,
And, then, you said,
“You must come with me.”
I complied. How could
I not? I melt like butter
When you speak. I see
Your face, and feel as if
I'd stepped into the summer's
Sun, but, soon, you'd drawn
Away again. I looked.
I knew I shouldn't follow.
Foolish man, I don't give up.
I'll come. Just say I must.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
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Written on 2014-12-12 at 01:06

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