Venus In Curls

I sometimes wished she would
cheat on me.
I'd sit with repulsive wishes,
'Maybe tonight...'
Waiting for a teary voice,
a confession.

It never came.
I've whipped and lashed
at my own dignity.
What was wrong with me?

She never did.

'I'll be your mirror...'

She showed me some
dark reflection of myself,
and I was ashamed.

I could never show her
that side of me.
The coward.
The cynic.
The passive manipulator.

I'm haunted by her goodness.
Her gentle images bring me to
guilty tears.

'You're a dream come true, baby...'

I miss her skin.
I've written poetry on her
while she sighed from a distant sleep,
a soft hiss from my fingers,
my scent as ink.


I miss the cursive sonnets
on her back...

I miss her world
and how she pads through
it like a patient wind.

God,
I miss it.

by Eric Gibson

Comments (1)

What a poem! A crucifix and a confession...your words mean a lot more than what they look in print...a write, off the heart, Eric...10+