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Literature Text
Absent eyes, like the passengers in buses passing
hidden behind steamed glass,
a cold tide falling between his face and mine.
Holding his gloved hand like a frightened child,
drawn closer,
touched by a yearning or a fear,
burning my throat,
a crippled weakness in my pace
where my strength trickled away in new sadness.
He breathes his past from every pore.
He will not speak the lines he writes;
I ache to hear. I want to be
a reason for the words that make me tender and quiet.
The horror he conjures at every sweet step,
the gentle terror he lays upon me
will spoil and twist it all, my life.
Like buses passing, his thoughts are soon elsewhere,
and I must learn not to speak of him again.
hidden behind steamed glass,
a cold tide falling between his face and mine.
Holding his gloved hand like a frightened child,
drawn closer,
touched by a yearning or a fear,
burning my throat,
a crippled weakness in my pace
where my strength trickled away in new sadness.
He breathes his past from every pore.
He will not speak the lines he writes;
I ache to hear. I want to be
a reason for the words that make me tender and quiet.
The horror he conjures at every sweet step,
the gentle terror he lays upon me
will spoil and twist it all, my life.
Like buses passing, his thoughts are soon elsewhere,
and I must learn not to speak of him again.
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Quite painful.
© 2006 - 2024 ophelia-in-red
Comments6
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Quite possibly one of the best things I have ever read. Such vivid and intense emotions.