Whatever are you doing to me?
Writer-woman, epitome of Venus,
Stoking embers of my Promethean fire,
Until the coals in my heart glow,
Waxing lyrical, making love flow.

The moon, seemingly caught in the trees,
Reveals tears rolling down my face,
Sitting here, a back-garden-king,
Alone and shivering in the cold,
Hugging the warmth inside, cuddling,
With just the dark of night for company,
Comforted, for I love you, it’s true,
And never deny it; you love me too.

Only, it’s all we have, please try and see,
Nothing else matters in our own  reality,
I nurse the ache, such pain, jeez,
Hear me Muse, just hear me, please,
Take all you can, I know it’s not much,
But I offer it to you, my digital feelings.

My words, sculpting a view of heaven,
Prose dancing amongst distant starlight,
Shining in your eyes: are they also tears?
Perhaps, observed by an impassive moon,
Now beyond the clutches of leafy limbs,
As you are beyond my embracing arms.

Edges of passing clouds, illuminated,
Are you glowing, my Muse, are you?
Do my lonely words of love stir you?
Stoke hidden smouldering passions?
Do you ever think, maybe wonder,
As we tap keys on the sub-ether,
Whatever are you doing to me?

©Paul Chafer 2014