I saw her softly combing her chestnut hair
Each motion like parting smooth ocean waves.
I had to know her and how she behaves.
Yet my heart filled with terrible despair.

My friends told me to turn back,
but I braved the restless sea.
I seem to have a knack,
For finding any key.

I found her reading my favorite book.
She was delighted to know I knew it.
Nothing was more obscure than our love,
for a writer more obscure than his peers.

I dreamed of her every night
her passions warm
our victory right;
in either
dorm.

Every meeting with her I carried
my fantasies: a shell eclipsing the
very truth I failed to see, or so they
said of my nights' shameful proclivities.

We shared our hearts like pastries,
devouring one another's
thoughts until we
knew the taste
by rote.

Of course, we were so engorged upon the
fictions of our authored lives that something
had to be real; had to be tangible
beyond mere spooling tales wagging to tune.

Ignited like a forest fire was the lust coursing through us and
in gleaming moonlit fits of ravenous lips and tender bits
our bodies danced in only so many ways two
chiming instruments can rattle the soul
knocking and injecting essences
to quench the flame that
can never ever be
quenched...

Oh, Lord!

I lay there breathing wishing to die in
the moment I knew I loved her that I
may immortalize the knowledge thusly
ending potential doubt and teeming lies.

A month later, we were still burning and
alive and burning alive but we don't
threaten our haven, we just consider
ourselves lost in a wonderland of ***.

Then a man, a few years my senior came,
and he wanted words, he felt entitled.
He felt entitled to her, her mind, her
body, her genius, her love and her ***.

A month later, at a bar back at home,
I saw it all too clear and regretted
ever knowing her, ever loving her
every succumbing to the ***: that drug.

She's somewhere now, loving him, because he was entitled;
his name was on her history, in her language, on her
books, in her mind, on her, in her, every time
I thought it was just me, he was there
dancing with her, holding her
my hand was a ghost
all along.

My darling portends the end of an era,
but my life began with her and that soft kiss.
My darling portends a life of searching for,
cure to a heartbreak that mends with further pain.