Until last night
I slept soundly
living in a world devoid
of you
(ignorance is bliss)
and those perfume-scented
pillows that I can only
imagine
from across
so great a distance,
or the sublime
tilt of your head to one side
just before you speak
a word and looking damn
fine
no doubt about it,
too.
They say only fools
rush in, but what
lines
could I pen
of those desperate men weak
with heartache from lies
that bind
whispered on more than one instance —
lost
(if you can imagine)
and lonely,
prevented
from a chance like this
for something true
beyond the empty void,
boundless
and forever out of sight?
