Slope of an empty spoon that moonlight grazes and goes away
Bereft lily pad in a pond, clinging to a scent that wouldn't stay
Fading blackness of the night
A last unturned page
Old brown blood
Green raw bud
A cracked glass that won't hold a drink
Spilt perfumed wine
Not all, not much, not all that much
-But that is what it means to miss.
Monday, September 19, 2005
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
474, 475, 476, and 477 of 534
I am feeling disoriented now. And my body aches - from the travel and whatever is going on. But a friend takes me to his gym every night......
-
This isn't exactly a feminist tirade, but this is written by a woman, and it is written in annoyance. You raise your girls to be sweet...
-
I visited the Crossword at Mulund. It is big, bright, noisy, and has a really chic café. There are books too. The reason I was there was to ...
1 comment:
Post a Comment