To have you settled in poetry
and think of it as an effort well made
would be to peel out layer-by-layer
the words you ever said.
Your departure (not that you had
arrived) from my life saw the pole-star
blown out like an exhausted candle-flame,
devoid of air – trapped in a jar.
A rhyme could be the only sense
of structure which remains
between us as the urge to kiss you again
runs furiously through my veins.
It was not a sin to believe that
you desired for my arrival and now that I
am here with my luggage well-packed with
the intention to stay, look how you sigh!
Love feeds on assumptions, I believe
and that I had assumed way too lot,
but days getting shorter with the arrival of winter
only yields your thought while I rest on my cot.
Art by Howard Sills