Eleven

I live twelve lives, as you can count, but you're the only one I love.
The eleventh, the beautiful, and most precious one who I love.

I can feel you faintly in the Autumn air when you're only getting near,
I stiffen when I hear your voice, like when you used to still be here,
but you're not. Not yet.

I remember your gaze, transfixed by a dream of the brightest topaz eyes,
But only yours and not the others. I wish you were here where my heart dies,
but you're not. Not yet.

I can remember the way your touch stirs my soul, without an embrace.
We never embraced, but I love you, with your lonely and sorrowful face
Which brings me to tears every time. Your lovely and wonderful face,
With which I am so selfishly in love, almost seems present in this space,
but you're not. Not yet.

My eleventh life and only love, with your passionate, powerful, and icy touch
Which makes me tremble in your wake, I love you. I love you far too much,

Though you, unlike any other love man could possess, will be there. Never
will you break the promise you made so many seasons ago to return. Never.

Author's Note

My intention is to stir emotion, and my ambition is to inspire thought. Have I not achieved the first, then I have failed, and if I have achieved the second I can claim success.

Reviews

[An Ordinary Woman]

Claim your success, new friend. You've accomplished both.
I think your poem is fabulous!

[gb.]

very vivid. with a dark touch. i like this one.

[Michael X]

a well written and worthwhile read, and over all great job, the passion and imagery capture the season.