Stupid

The days pass, months do. Now it's
Winter. Still, the ache which can't be
Cured because of ambiguity. None on
My part; I must love her, without
Reason, without hope. If I could
Turn, I might be healed, but she,
So nearly silent, wrapped in wisps
Of love it sometimes seems, says
She would rather that I stayed. To
What end? Does she even know?
I haven't touched her, never will.
She doesn't want me seen with
Her. She has another lover,
One of record. Why would she
Need me? She'll never say. She
Simply does, and I, afflicted, sore
And sad, in love, and stupid,
Feel more certain I am bound
To meet that need with every
Passing day.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 78 times
Written on 2016-01-04 at 16:51

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