Howl, yowl I cry. Why not here?
Fear!
I will not see you or hear you.
The repartee see brought glee

No spoon can be golden without the tea.

And thy sweet embrace.
Cry, howl, I was in your arms.
Your arms!
My arm still sacred from that first
Near holy touch. The hairs there
Still fair & silken, blessed.
Whereas the rest resound the void,
ever quickening to the sickening hours
Days, weeks, months of absence.

*That wasn’t it. The actual poem has a special design which is why it is taking longer than my “off the cuff” quippings.

I got stuck & wound up.
All I write trite
Bollocks.
Inadequate, clumsy, stressed
Overwhelmed by desire,
Undressed & night attire.
Aw gawdammit Flints!
I’m physically on fire

And you’re not here,
Dear.

X

Possibly it should be “floors” imagining an upward trajectory …

I hope the poetry society appreciate the quality of this work - it is from the heart.

This may no longer be wholly accurate…

Not that I’m a failed novelist - I just have to take time over my “belles lettres”…

Oh flintyglints those eyes of yours
Would send my soul a screechin’
Leaving soul shaped holes
In all the doors
As I’m a heaven reachin’.