Secret Love

Why is life so cruel?

The red fool looks upon me questioningly from behind his velvet shield.

Why does it play my life like a game, like Monopoly?

Do Not Pass Go. Do Not Have A Good Day.

Go Straight To The Emotional Prison.

I read messages to cheer myself up.

And Poetry.

I read about a Blue Eyed Hero stuck in the land of Sheep Lovers.

I read blogs that interest me.

I await summer with its prospect of free time, easy days and love.

I write poetry to express myself, and to impress others.

I write as it helps calm me down, think.

I wonder if I'm the only one.

No.

I'm not.

There is at least one other.

A Mirage in a desert.

She's real, tangible.

And soon she'll be a blurring face in London as she runs across the square.

To safety's embrace.

My arms.

And soon, a pensive face behind a coffee mug.

Absorbing the smell.

Absorbing the taste.

Absorbing the sight opposite her.

Drinking it in with so much hastened greed.

Gorging herself.

Getting her fill before the metallic ghost chimes in:

"WILL PASSENGERS PLEASE BOARD..."

She stares, torn to go.

He stares, torn to stay.

Write to me, she says.

Always, he replies.

They part, a sudden empty hole, a sudden full regret.