To the Gal that Writes me Well
When waiting for love, like a bitter disorder,
the haunting loneliness cascades
across the temperate peaks of one’s imagination,
delivering a crushing blow
to all that was wishful affection.
Internally, in my dreams, I hear her whisper words
of much intensity, which drift, like sandpaper,
across the bruised perimeter of my heart,
and upon awakening, my arms
around an always invisible desire,
her name rolling across my tongue;
a name she never hears.
We write and we talk, and frequently
I am forced to pretend that what I feel is non-existent,
and by the time she and I have the courage
to be prescribed that adoring conversation,
the wait which filled the abyss between us
became too steep, and she has found
another, better heart, whereas I am left behind.
A reading of the poem can be found at the following link: http://youtu.be/zuHWdy4JrUo