Hardly, ever read a poetry.
Maybe a few, for school classes.
It was always like an array of lines,
only poets might understand.
But I grew up. I realized, that,
I was a fool. It had a man's
deepest sorrows, deepest desires.
An array of lines, too small
for a story, but almost a novel
for a reader to think.
I started to write.

Now I read, I write,
With an emptiness in my heart,
A desire to see one, the one,
I never found, A Poem,
Unique, as the dark stories of mine...

She kept them with Her,
In the deepest of her heart,
where they slept peacefully.
The poems, I wrote her,
The kisses I gave her,
The memories I made her,
The time, I spent with her,
within an envelope, which
in time, torn apart. But
never forgotten. cuz,
She kept them with Her,
In the deepest of Her heart.

Soul and blood,
He thought love was.
Compromise, and maturity,
She thought love was.
They, sometimes bled.
Emotions wept,
Practicality laughed.

Last kiss, she said.
One time only, she said.
Just a friend, she said.
Means nothing, she said.
Its the liquor, she said.
Its alright, I said.

A few days past by.

She lay'd on my arms,
with her husky eyes,
staring at mine, with
our hearts close as our lips,
and my arms, dragging her
closer. I whispered.
I love you too. She said.

A few days will pass by.

One last kiss, she'll say.
No more, she'll say.
Near hearts shall whisper
farewell, stay well.
Shall blame the world,
and wish for the near
next life to meet again,
And never, a good bye
to be heard ever again ...