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.
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 11:35 PM UTC
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.