Posts tagged “Loneliness

Mistress

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Mistress

My comfort does lie not
in the compassion of your companionship,
even as I lay the weight of my heart on your shoulder,
but in the deep knowledge of the promise
that you will never say
“I love you.”

Charles Coakley Simpson


Cold

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Cold

Even in the distance I can feel you pull away
as the warmth is fading from my arms.
And yet I am embraced by this tender despair–I love you still.
Powerfully. Passionately. Painfully.
The things you say. The things you do. The way you move.
Thus it is only in my heart where time stands still
and I am left to ponder how long it will be
until you miss me

Charles Coakley Simpson


The Catharsis of Love

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The Catharsis of Love

Have we been any less loving—than kind?
When it was love we wanted, there was no love to give,
and yet when there was love to give–it was not the love we wanted.
Thus the love we receive is no more than–
The love we deserve

Charles Coakley Simpson


The Hole in Your Heart

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The Hole in Your Heart

I never told you–
how easy you were to love;
will you forgive me?

Charles Coakley Simpson

 


The Dead

c61The Dead

Lying in the cold-hard bed, he waits for sleep to take him.

The snow falls quietly outside his window and yet the night is filled with the sounds of darkness–a lover’s quarrel, the alibi of a passing train, the shriek and cry of a forgotten child, and still he lies there waiting—waiting for sleep to take him, a name sitting voicelessly on his lips.

And in the shadows he longs for her touch. He imagines her beside him–face shrouded in the half-light; the sheets delicately forming the line of her hip.  She lies in silence beneath his watch–silent like the edge of night where the wind is still and the trees do not speak.

His heart trembles to be next to her. His eyes follow the nakedness, climbing the curve of her spine, crossing the breadth of her shoulders, and pressing his lips gently into the crescent of her throat he remembers how her kisses used to taste like moonlight and mercy.

And the snow continues to fall quietly–scurrying down the empty streets, huddling into the darkened doorways, covering the green fields where the trees used to fly up to the birds and still he lies there waiting–waiting for sleep to take him–to where the lilacs bloom.

The clock chimes madly in the darkness.

Charles Coakley Simpson