When I was younger, I imagined that love was easy.
it was nothing but the flows of passion, and its streams, its ebbs,
Sometimes I dance, and her love is easy,
More often, it is those who see too late,
they move with the delight of another generation,
they drop their skirts with abandon,
they speak of the peace, and love, of another
that strangers can imagine these moments
They pretend that I was there,
that I know,
that I see the beauty... of their shape, of their movements,
I take home that longing in my own,
that left over passion,
I see the nakedness of their passion
they are peaking in stealing from me
I cannot hold it all,
I cannot share,
I am naked in their embrace,
I have nothing but my soul, it is weak
and it hurts, that they see,
you, you know that it is too real,
yet you dance, too hide...
I dance, inside, for you
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
1 comment:
A little background...
I wasn't too drunk when posted.
I had met a lovely French engineer.
We danced, and she touched.
She told me of her love, and I loved him.
We danced, and touched.
It was good but too short, too real.
She shared in a moment that parents never speak of. No sex because her beau showed up when I wasn't drunk enough to be stupid... maybe she would have turned me down. She was beautiful and loved her but for a moment.
Post a Comment