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.

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Charles Bukowski Walt Whitman Sylvia Plath Robert Frost Anne Sexton E. E. Cummings