If you should catch me,
in the act of being kind to myself,
Crossing my arms,
in effort to caress.
Or brushing my hair, taking pleasure
like a child of five might recall of his mother;
Or tenderly touching the shoulder of him.
If I primp or preen my feathers,
place a hand on my thigh,
or the like of a sensual spot,
Or resting, with wrist to cheek,
so as to think, she is there:
My lost love, lying, once again, beside me!
Eventually, I will take advantage,
indulging in some erotic act;
Though it might apply pressure to the wound,
at end, it is anticlimactic:
A letdown, pleasurable for a moment,
but a lie to myself, for I am still here, alone…
And without her!
If this confession should disgust,
repulse, or insult your pious religion.
Do not condemn me for the ghost
of a lover I long to lie with:
The ordeal of an Ideal
I, simply, cannot get over!
She is become flawless, now, in my thoughts,
than ever she was when around me.
For, I have placed her on a plinth,
made Goddess of her.
I have Sanctified the Church of her in my heart
And hope, if she should come,
that she will look, know, then go, leaving it alone…