The Night She Told Me.. Poem by mike ross

The night she told me..

Is so typical of my life.

I was not in her arms,
With bodies still burning from our passion…

But on a plane to exotic places,
Alone,
Pursuing the fortune of De Leon, maybe..
Unable to give her the confirmation she sought which
Words alone can’t convey,

However,

I know how it would happen,
If we were together when she first said those words,

it would be like this…

She would catch me staring at her,
Or perhaps I would be stroking her hair and shoulders
as I love to do,
Touching her skin of silk and moonlight,
as she lay in my arms,
Feeling deep emotions only, I,
am afraid to put to words,

Her brown eyes would be sparkling as she searched mine,
for confirmation,
and yet
A touch of fear,
would appear
in those windows to her soul,
Begging me to be gentle
In her moment of intense vulnerability,
And then,
She would lay herself open to me, as she said,

Those words, Straight into my heart.

Jewel speckled, timeless words,
Which have brought strong men to their knees since the beginning,

She would say to me…

“I’m falling in love with you “


Then she would quiet,
As the silence,
full of anticipation and
The beginning of us,
searched my face for the signs

women know so well, and puzzled when she didn’t see them
would see it all then,
in my eyes
and gasp,
in the wonder of it all

I would give her the response she sought, then
In a way,
words alone cannot answer,
her questions resolved ….

But this was not to be, for words would be all I had.

And the poet was a mute
speechless, breathless, and without the arms to hold her,
the lips to kiss away the doubts,
the heart beat to match her heart,
as they fluttered in sinq,
and each skipped a beat
in anticipation of
the beginning of us..

As tears streamed down my cheeks,
in seat 17 A of United 861, and the woman across the aisle
starring in disbelief
turned away….

My heart ached for the right words,
To express the emotions
falling out of me onto the pages of some stupid book..

But Words would fail me
as the poet without his pen and paper
has not art nor evidence,
of the eloquence of his loneliness,


I was laid bare and rendered mute
by true beauty,
from a pure heart, and
A “this is it! ! ! ” kind of Love,
offered to me, completely, with no terms or pre conditions ….