I miss reading my poetry to you
letting my words roll over you before they hit anyone else
knowing that sharing them with you meant something to us both
you said you loved me
but there were so many things
not working
and the two things that keep my heart beating
You and my work couldn’t live together anymore
I tore myself apart
to do what is right
And now I sleep alone
with words that flow
like wild western rivers
and everyone says I glow now
that my dreams are in reach
but I sleep alone
and miss a thousand things
beyond just touch
when our souls would dance
and my words
my poor, poor poet words
would wash over
and feed us both
Lucinda Rose 
Wow, where do I begin. This was a very evocative experience. The flow was impeccable, the imagery was delicate without being frilly, and the soul was so beautiful and alive, albeit tortured. From start to finish it sounded graceful and eloquent, like a master poet who is familiar with her pain and can move–practically glide–inside it with ease.
If you are writing from experience, I want to send you a virtual hug from the sub-zero city of Chicago and tell you it gets better. And we are always fed by our words, sometimes in the face of our melancholy and begrudging. But the love that we find, whether we get to keep it or lose it, is worth it, especially for those who can wield the craft as beautifully as you.
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Thank you so much. Your words made me blush with pride this morning. It is from experience, but it was a long time ago. I will, of course, always accept hugs. Greetings from not so sunny Florida.
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🙂
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simply beautiful, friend. 🙂
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Thank you, it is always a bit scary putting my work out there.
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