Music playing in moon lit fields
while his head rests on my shoulder
and he speaks of how he loves me,
though he can only be a friend,
is more romantic than your hand near mine,
your heart beating my name, but your
lips never forming the words I yearn to hear
from you, not him.

I walk with him ‘til morning, enjoying
the wind on my salt-laced cheeks,
leaving you behind to suffer pain
that you cannot feel, cannot know,
until the morning light comes and
washes this night away into the
pool of memories and unhealed wounds
known as the soul.

07/11/2009

Posted on 07/11/2009
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