Untitled
Like a reflection,
not Narcissistic
but caught ever so dimly
in its own saintly gaze,
I came to you,
or you came to me-
I could never be sure which.
For our lips touched,
touched again,
and thrice met
in a holy trinity
of two.
But then I discovered
that my head lay,
alone,
in the hollow of my pillow,
that my fingers, laced with yours,
in fact were linked with naught.
I burn for what can never be,
I pine for those ghostly caresses
that, never kindled,
can never spark a flame.
Just so, words never voiced
will never echo;
vows never exchanged
cannot be returned.
Though I ache for you,
my heart is hollow;
for love, said Sophocles,
feels like a bit of ice
held in a child's hand.
A bit of ice within a coal
must melt or quench the flame;
there is no mending the hole
so still it lurks,
a frozen conflagration.

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