I still love her so much,
the feeling never truly departs…
the ache for her touch.
You read my words and say to yourself
“What does he know of love?”
What do you know of a shelf?
The ground it is well above,
but what does it do?
It holds the odd thing or two—
However, if a shelf unbeknownst to you bears weight,
then shouldn’t your suspicions abate…?
It is made to perform a task.
Why would you assume the later is just a masque?
I love and know love because I am a shelf,
I am made to carry things and hold them to myself.
I am sometimes empty,
after Her welcomed larceny.
My heart is lost in painful serendipity.