Musings by The Poet Loriet
He Loves Me...Not?
When it's just him
and the night stars
sparkling effervescent
light and warmth
across my sheets,
my doubts evaporate
into the moonlight.
He holds me and
I feel his body tremble
as my heart quivers
in silent response.
His eyes burn through me
as he stares in that way~
Oh yes, you know the way
I'm talking about...
You felt it too?
I imagine...
Yes, imagine IS the
right word,
that he feels
the same way
I DO.
I hunger for his touch,
can't get close enough,
want him inside me,
around me,
covering me...
but then he leaves
me alone once again,
with nothing but a
cold and aloof voice
over a long-distance
mobile phone.
There's nothing personal,
no, "I miss you,"
like I long to say,
but force myself
to hold back,
no terms of endearment--
(I bite my lip to
dam the honey
that threatens to
flow from my
too-eager mouth!)--
no whispered plans
for a romantic
rendezvous...
and I think I
must have imagined
the tenderness
I swore was there
in a disappearing
hat-trick
moment.
My heart flip-flops
as I hear his final
promising, "Night night,
sweet dreams,"
and I hold onto
that last daisy
petal of hope
before leaning out
of my bedroom
window, and letting
it and my whispery
teardrop,
"He loves me
...not,"
drift away
to a shooting star
that bears
the sole weight
of my
desire.
Wish upon it.
Lori Beal
and the night stars
sparkling effervescent
light and warmth
across my sheets,
my doubts evaporate
into the moonlight.
He holds me and
I feel his body tremble
as my heart quivers
in silent response.
His eyes burn through me
as he stares in that way~
Oh yes, you know the way
I'm talking about...
You felt it too?
I imagine...
Yes, imagine IS the
right word,
that he feels
the same way
I DO.
I hunger for his touch,
can't get close enough,
want him inside me,
around me,
covering me...
but then he leaves
me alone once again,
with nothing but a
cold and aloof voice
over a long-distance
mobile phone.
There's nothing personal,
no, "I miss you,"
like I long to say,
but force myself
to hold back,
no terms of endearment--
(I bite my lip to
dam the honey
that threatens to
flow from my
too-eager mouth!)--
no whispered plans
for a romantic
rendezvous...
and I think I
must have imagined
the tenderness
I swore was there
in a disappearing
hat-trick
moment.
My heart flip-flops
as I hear his final
promising, "Night night,
sweet dreams,"
and I hold onto
that last daisy
petal of hope
before leaning out
of my bedroom
window, and letting
it and my whispery
teardrop,
"He loves me
...not,"
drift away
to a shooting star
that bears
the sole weight
of my
desire.
Wish upon it.
Lori Beal
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He Loves Me...Not?
He Loves Me...Not?
