Lady In Satin
rotates ‘round the phonograph
in melancholic

motions, leaving my
swollen tear ducts to moisten
my dry, longing skin.

I can no longer
write about your tender lips.
or vivacious eyes.

I can no longer
write about your presence- so
inebriating.

I can no longer
write about your honest soul
or audacious heart.

I can no longer
wish upon the moon in hopes
of you returning.

I can no longer
keep knocking on hope’s closed door.
I can no longer

love you.