Thursday, 2 August 2012

The Last Honey


I came home one day
and you were gone,
not a word, or a note, or a long length 
of that satin ribbon 
we’d chosen, 
to hang in farewell,
just an old pair of shoes, 
in the stairwell and your scent
on our once-loving sheets. 

I remember I closed
my eyes to keep
all the stinging tears from coming,
knowing I had never really
tasted honey, until you were here;
knowing I would never again have
you near enough 
to warm my stony nights. 

I knew you were going when the roses
turned to fights, 
long talks to silence when we dimmed 
the lights, and our passion 
was spent elsewhere,
but I’d dreamed of you so, before you were there, 
and I couldn’t help
but keep caring, long after
you left that day…

You see, despite the way I ached, 
I still had
so much to say about 
broken wings (and discarded rings) 
that can learn to fly; and there is
nothing sadder than knowing, 
after all our most beautiful times,
that there was something worth saving,
you just didn’t want 
to try.

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