Viewing: Poetry - View all posts

The Morning Book 

I lay here with the book that is my memory,

left opened by my dreams,

opened to where I’ve earmark,

to where I have gilded the pages,

where each smile is inked in red letters,

and all the notes she wrote in the margins remind me of her limerence. 

They say a man can never give the same love twice,

and that someday somone will light a fire inside of you that can not die.

“They” whoever they are, have never said a thing more true.

In the dew of morning hours,

in my daydreams,

and when twinkling stars brighten an otherwise despondent sky.

I love her,

and for the rest of my life I can not wait to love her,

I can not wait to live for the dream of every terrible pang in my heart.