The Gift

Morisot-Painting-of-husband1-1024x870.jpgMorisot-Painting-of-husband1-1024x870.jpg(Eugene Manet On The Isle of White, Berthe Morisot, 1875)

The Gift

If only I am granted

a few hours, a moment of your time, a wishful thought; a brief interlude

A chance of remembrance of what we were; what we aren’t

Ah, the might of one’s will and the depth of one’s emptiness– a dance of surviving the fate of unrequited love

Clueless are you? Unconcerned? Oblivious…

of my longings, fettered yearnings

to revel in your being, soak in your essence–all that cannot be indulged

We are not sanctioned

It is only I who must suffer; be grateful for the crossings we have decided upon

Halting my urges to reach out  and let you know it is I you have loved…once, twice, lifetimes ago

The simple gesture of running my fingertips across your arm, absorbing your essence by mere touch, connecting the light that binds us

Hidden in density

Your handsomeness a cruel joke from the Gods

My head screams, “God I adore you!”

But I keep my smile subtle across my face, my eyes dark and steady

My mask of propriety; I do not give away my reverie

the meanings hidden in my art

Would you laugh at me, I wonder

Or run…run far away

Either way, a death I am not willing to confront

Forgive me of my sin

Please do not judge me harshly

For thy love is not in one’s power

And you have forever held my heart

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