Over the wide cold earth,
You walk back to the door,
By the fleeting pain I endure,
I don't know whether to open
Or close this chapter.
     You come lukewarm in color
And shivering with guilt,
My heart yearns to open the door,
From a word yet to he spoken,
      The essential within which was us
Before you left,
You wear a coat of tears as your
Hand placed flat against the door,
     I feel its presence
And place mine the same.
How much of the soul
      Do you want to **** in me,
To forgive you, to hold you?
Should this be the final sky
    From whence ocean tides once
Touched us, even as gentle air,
Should I open the door in full anguish
In this flowering sorrow,
    My heart nostalgic and broken?

Solitude is a fine thing before it tips into loneliness.
Loneliness and solitude live in the same house
and balance until lonesome perfection prevails. Then,
isolation, black and deadly, squeezes from the heart
a choked scream of gasping need, until, finally emptied,
all that remains is a ruined cavern bereaved of light.

  ~mce

I was seeing many girls
when she stormed into my life
broke my run with her resolve
to find her place as wife.

I was seeing many girls
when she came reined me in
halted me with all her force
determined to win.

I was seeing many girls
my dream was up to stars
when she arrived fully knowing
this man was soon to be hers.

I was seeing many girls
none of them could be wife
she knew it when she came
I would stick on her for life.

Brown yellow rusted pages
None read
None would for ages
Lying on the pave

Blurred is the title and name
Lost dream and never born fame
Wisdom of long bearded sages
Dumped in the grave

Dusty old forgotten write
Feasted upon by termite
What to author full of sense
Fetch not any pence

Should I buy take home to read
Not treat it like just **** ****
Spend some time in smelling old
See if bring some gains?

For her
he was always the man
on the other side of the table.

He was fond of it that way
so he could see her face
read the shades and lights
crack jokes through the grim times
when on the table was little
brimmed plenty in their hearts
and her tears when flowed
were not of unfulfilled needs
but a happiness she couldn’t grasp.

She doesn’t know
what she misses is love
or a mere habit.

She only knows
food doesn’t taste the same
without the man
on the other side of the table.