I miss the sound of human voice
that banter of gentle compassion and broken heart
I would read to you, if you would let me
some poor verse of mine
or the thousand and one nights,
one story each evening
every day til it was done
I’d hold you close, my glasses rimed with some
other light. And read, in this accent with these words
even as your skin held mine in
soft or sweated candour
I would write such light, as once I did
but fall before your superior sound
I’d cook for you, with some loving grace
and photograph that beauty you deny
and leave those notes that were never left me
I envisage the rise of your breast and the curve of your hip
in some fantasy of romantic intent
a mere memory of a love you gave away
without thought or care
but I still have these things to give
you deserve romance and love
even more than I do not
I tilt at the windmills you made across
The landscape in temptation and scorn
I have no Panza, nor horse nor lance
Just these words, this feeling
And my surrender

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