Lady In Satin
rotates ‘round the phonograph
in melancholic
motions, leaving my
swollen tear ducts to moisten
my dry, longing skin.
I can no longer
write about your tender lips.
or vivacious eyes.
I can no longer
write about your presence– so
inebriating.
I can no longer
write about your honest soul
or audacious heart.
I can no longer
wish upon the moon in hopes
of you returning.
I can no longer
keep knocking on hope’s closed door.
I can no longer
love you.