Image by Ali 313 at Morguefile.com
She dressed slowly
in all of me,
a coat of hope
on naked skin.
Her lips witness
to a night bygone
and with a bell toll
she too was gone.
Left here in me,
a hollowness
and tired hands
that want no more.
I was a dream,
she, a caress
and I will have her
nevermore.
Each line threads intimacy with aftermath. The Nightly Poet writes through contact so tender it bruises. A delightfully aching poem! 🩵
There are sometimes no more weepier times, than when a soul ... stands onthe cusp of precipice ... and wills themself to apologize to self, to mourn for self, to say goodbye to self