You tell me
There is no sweet remedy
Which will dispose
This torment
Other than love

I know you speak of the poets we read
And the poems we write
And the great books we speak of
In intellectual whispers
Stacked high in the libraries of our cloistered lives.

My love, however, has a more earthly bent
And it is not among the leaves of dusty tomes
Or the words of romantics who have long since left
This mortal coil.

I stare at you over the top of a book
And wonder if the woman behind the glasses
Ever went out to play
Or did she stay locked in a bedroom
In the early years, finding
In the flame of books what she was too shy to seek
In the fire of a lover’s kiss

My sweet torment is to be this close
Divining the warm emollients which may awaken
The heart and flesh in equal measure

All while wondering which of the
Rhymes and meters we put together
In lovely, lonely solitude
Will cause your eyes to look up, too

Seeking, at last, your own sweet remedy

01/07/2010

Author's Note: You're It, M..:0

Posted on 01/07/2010
Copyright © 2025 Ken Harnisch