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Jan 2016
On my doorstep a poetry book, you left
cold with night winds, shivering words
written in your hand, poems I never read
I saw the way you tried to pretend
like there was something, somehow to mend
that night you descended like an angel
maybe Gabriel, sweetly musical
while Christmas songs played on the radio
I watched as holiday lights flew by
all the while your angelic disguise beguiled
felt the weight of deep denial
but I blame the stark desert moon
blame your entrancing wicked eyes
our foolish lonesome desires
and still I don't regret
that night, the blue hot,
burning of the fire.
CA Guilfoyle
Written by
CA Guilfoyle  F/Portland, OR -Tucson, AZ
(F/Portland, OR -Tucson, AZ)   
526
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