Once a poet gifted me a book of poems
and in the margin I wrote my own.
Someday I’ll read my children a poem and tell them I once loved a poet.
How was he? They’ll ask.
Worthy of more love than I was capable of giving, I’ll reply.
But surely the few moments we shared were truthful.
I laid in his arms and he read me Paz and Neruda.
We were in love, our veritable love was alive.
As all ephemera, the time came for our love to perish.
My poet asked me not to die.
Palpitating premonition made me anxious.
It was our love that was dead, rather.
I mourn our deceased passion, our broken hearts.
We witnessed the life and demise of our unity.
My poet, my love. Our life, our death.
(0) Readers Comments
March 21, 2017
March 02, 2017
February 21, 2017
Thank you, Scott.
I have been living in Santiago for about one year and I can confirm th
This was an enjoyable read. I could easily picture the venue and und
Thank you so much, Melanie. I appreciate your kind words about my stor
What a touching story! Being an English teacher as well as a music ent