I lay myself open to you...

Like a thumb worn novel

aspiring to be a classical romance...

coming off as a cheap
dime store
rag

My lines less Tennyson and Shelley
more Micky Spillani

yet feel the warmth of each page
once pressed against
my aching
breast

for it heard my needful heart
tasted my tears

Read between the lines
find the nervous boy behind the man

all fingers and thumbs
typing out words his Tongue
could never
speak

Each comma each fullstop
an anxious
drawn
out breath...

as I thought of you discarding me

in pursuit of passion

yet know the foreword and the photograph
do no justice to my ache
for you

to find me
there amongst the metaphors

waiting...

for you alone
to know the real me.