December
There is no day left
to this December,
no scotch in the hollow cabinet
no ashes left from when you
sat beside the candle…
I lie in the palm of my bed
unable to think of the tomorrow
that won’t bring you back again…
I know your face so well
close
above mine
in the shadows…
the way your eyes look when
love is here,
when hurt has come
when you laugh…
I know your hands
and the soft contours where
our fingers come in contact,
and the way my body turns to you
when you’ve only touched
your lightest touch.
Somewhere outside my window
dusk is setting up its purple brush,
dipping it in night,
covering all the sorrow
your name brings.
I know, too, this place
with its castle bedroom
and musky sheets
will be something I’ll remember
years and lovers
yet to come.
👁 8💬 0
Something wrong with this poem?
Replies are closed for this poem.
esther.luttrell.7
After years of writing commercials and educational films, I ended up at CBS and then MGM. Sold screenplays and was story consultant for producers and studios. Now I write mysteries, but it's the little book of poems, Alone is Such a Long, Long Time, I'm most pleased with. It's really just for me, but I'm sharing it with anyone else who has ever lost a loved one ... maybe they died, maybe only their affection died, it in the end, it's all the same.
View all poems →Your Poem's Voice
See what makes your poem unique — its voice, energy, themes, and the literary traditions it draws from.
Comments (0)
No comments yet. Be the first to share your thoughts.
Log in to leave a comment.