How does one reach within
The bare chest of a woman, without covering
To receive the heart that has darkened itself
To the sun?
Love usually fed upon her flesh
Enough that when I came to her
She was the sun, not the moon that cries in the shadows.
She received no darkness upon one side of her face,
Nor did she have the many masks
To conceal each grain of pain.
Life squandered her
Of love’s endeavor
To show her trust,
To create rush
Against her pale skin
And blueish eyes.
I will leave love at the doorstep
Of her scented heart
To see if she
Will pick it up to me,
To withhold it.