This love is as a sickness
Taking her long days
In dread and drudge;
Thinking of him
Who made her ill
And broke at heart,
His wonderfulness;
His being there
And now not;
His scent of manliness;
His deep-set eyes;
The lips waiting for her
In some foreign port,
Amongst other girls
Less half her age,
More beautiful
And not so scarce
Or moral bound.
If only he was present now,
To have and hold,
To kiss and love,
And bring sweet
Between her arms and legs;
And no more dream of him
In nights of woe
Or self relieving hands
The pleasures seek,
But he there beside her
Kissing warm, hot holds,
Tingling touches,
Tight embraces,
If only he was there,
And not elsewhere
With other girls
Of tender age and touch.
Why did she love at all?
Why love so much?
Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 2:11 AM UTC
This love is as a sickness
Taking her long days
In dread and drudge;
Thinking of him
Who made her ill
And broke at heart,
His wonderfulness;
His being there
And now not;
His scent of manliness;
His deep-set eyes;
The lips waiting for her
In some foreign port,
Amongst other girls
Less half her age,
More beautiful
And not so scarce
Or moral bound.
If only he was present now,
To have and hold,
To kiss and love,
And bring sweet
Between her arms and legs;
And no more dream of him
In nights of woe
Or self relieving hands
The pleasures seek,
But he there beside her
Kissing warm, hot holds,
Tingling touches,
Tight embraces,
If only he was there,
And not elsewhere
With other girls
Of tender age and touch.
Why did she love at all?
Why love so much?
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