|© Charles Schultz|
I do not want to tell another man
I love him, only to see my words ground
to dust over time, while I can taste
them still, fresh as a kiss on my tongue.
To what avail? My belief in words
as a kind of cement has eroded –
every monument to man’s folly
will fall, given time and prevailing winds.
And this is the thing, no words
can warm my feet at night –
not even those I recall spoken
on warmer mornings than frosty June.
I know, hugging oneself to sleep is no substitute
but better than holding on to one who’s already gone.
Fashion Me Your Words To Fold is hosted by Gillena in The Imaginary Garden.