Lovesick

 

Like honey through my fingers, her hair flows thick

with essence of which I grow lovesick.

As if to kiss a hand with grace,

I pull a strand from side her face,

and as I close my eyes and inhale,

she melts into my arms.  So frail

she is, I squeeze her tight,

and through closed eyes I see the light.

There is this thing called time I damn

whenever without her I am found.

The warmth and comfort from this one’s display

leave my steely armor in complete dismay.

No defense, it seems, can stand this test,

for her weapon is love… and she wields it best.

 

September 12, 1992

 

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