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Poem A Love Story By Lang leave

A Love story

Beyond the shores of melancholy,

There was a time I held your hand.

My heart now bears an untold story,

Like a ship at sea, that longs for land.

A great untruth, my lips have borrowed,

A boundless treasure to line my chest;

The wealth of words are in their sorrow

And words are all I can bequest.

We will remain unwritten through history,

No X will mark us on the map;

But in books of prose and poetry,

You loved me once, in a paragraph.

And your love has left me, on this island,

It has filled my cup up to the brink;

Yet I grow thirsty in this silence

There is not a drop for me to drink.

 

Virtual   Love

We fell in love through screens, through satellites that carried our words across the aching void.

Night after night, we spoke about hands on body and lips on skin. After the silence,

I would think of all the girls made of flesh and bone within your arm’s reach.

As winter gave way to summer, the dust motes dancing in the sunlight blurred into pixels, and I gave my heart to a photograph.

I wondered how could be so afraid of losing something that wasn’t mine.

Then came the crossed wires, the signal jam. The static that grew between

It’s dull, murmuring protest. And I would question if there were other

Just like me, who had found themselves caught in your orbit.

Whether I we just another celestial body,

Sent up from the ground;

When the moon original satellite is the only one you see from where you’re standing.

 

A Writer’s Plea

Take me someplace where I can feel something

I want to give away my heart.

Tell me his name so I can know love when it speaks to me.

Give me someone I can write about.

 

In the End

I was ready to give it all up—everything. I was half out of my mind with

Love. And I didn’t think twice about what I was throwing into the fire, as

Long as I could keep it burning for just another minute—if only I was

Allowed to sit a while longer beside its pale glow.

That was how I loved you in the end. With my body cold and shuddering.

With empty hands over smouldering ash, counting out the minutes.

 

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