Saturday, 14 September 2013

A Familiar Complaint

For when I touch the paper and think of you
Discuss not, my long-exhausted ways
Which have been craft in tears, but only blue
For they fall upon an anxious face.
It is feeling the wafer-thinness of the page
Which I offer as an ideal distance
But the days thicken in their rage
And I live without existence.
Do not tell me that my ways are false
For I feel that from the ground and air
And the short sharp shocks of a human pulse
But it is not mine without you there.
Do not tell me to be strong
For strength includes a kind of hope
Empty without your smile to look upon
And between the fingers lies the rope.