Love?
For her, as usual.
Love? I met her
Once, or maybe more.
Was hard to tell,
She never used
The same name twice,
Though it might have
Been me, focussed
On this or that,
Or caught out by
The crowd, anxious,
Shy, maybe stoned.
Desperate, me,
To convince her,
Show my fun side,
Open myself up
In case my first
Impression left
Crumbs on the chair.
Did she notice?
I’d ignore them,
Summon a tale,
Hope to distract
And never bore.
Inconsistent
Best described her,
Brunette this week
And blond the next,
Haunting me with
Familiar fears,
My inner voices
Contradicting
The rest about
How to proceed.
Indecision
Won in the end
(As usual)
And once again
I’d slink away.
‘Next time,’ I’d say
To cheer myself,
Knowing it a lie,
Then one night from
Across the room
I heard her laugh
And learned that love
Knows no mercy.
Like yours truly, Emily Gibson thinks rhyme is over-rated.
✍ — Published by DR Rawson — The Possibilist at Dancing Elephant Press. Click here for guidelines to post click here.
