That one instant
When I made you blush with my words
When I got you nervous with my look
That one sweet hug in the street
That one tender peck in my cheek

That should be enough to fill all my longing
Enough to fill many lifetimes with joy
But my greedy heart is never satisfied
Can never have enough of you
And wants to extend those instants for ever
So those memories and delusions of what could have been haunt me
And afflict this hungry heart
Because all it wants is you

Don't ever fall in love.
Don't ever try to find someone
You can loose  yourself  to .
No one cares about your fragile heart,
No one but you.
While you sit there, heart full of love,
He is sitting there looking at your
Photograph whilst some fair skinned
Girl has her tongue down his throat .

I know it’s in me, this word called hate.
It creeps and crawls. It dwells within the
tip of my heart and it blackens my soul.

I can feel it.
Claws out, it tears at my thoughts and it slashes my dreams.
It needs to get out.
I weep in pain, in agony, and in fear of this word called hate.
It is a babe without a heartbeat.
It is a mother without children.
It is a friend with no one to call friend.
It is a lover in need of love.
It is the monster we call ourselves.

This hate is in me.

My trust broken.
My senses numb.
My life stolen before me.
My almost lover lost.

Hate.

Rage.

Fury.

This darkness is all I see. It has a form, whatever it maybe. It differs from each person. It is what we don’t want it to be.

Your eyes - rich chocolate-
each a world, stopped mid-rotation
to survey my expression.

Words fail us.
The air near bursting with
hunger.

We inhale thoughts without form,
gaze sliding over gaze
waiting and wishing.

Heavy sighs and sideways smiles-
your curls gently bounce
as you break contact.

Again you shine those
inquisitive beacons
on my stone face.

I see the earth's core beneath-
the tumult of the plates
colliding and cracking.

My marble facade crumbles
at desire's relentless reach.
I know you. From before.

We have loved.
But no more.
no more.

The Eiffel Tower is on my secret book.
The one that holds my memories of you.
Not the fairy-tale; the one you took
The wrenching pain is all it knew.

The book itself is pleasant to see.
But reading its contents always makes me cry.
Each time the pain becomes new to me.
My hell written down in a black dye.

The book is mine and the story is mine,
But the girl who wrote it isn’t me.
That broken girl woven into every sad line.
The one person I never thought I’d be.

To burn my secret book, many times I have thought.
Maybe the flames would strip grief of its power.
Instead it will stay a reminder of my life’s lot.
My secret pain, in my secret book with the Eiffel Tower.