If moonbeams’ fickle shadow-plays collude
with tousled sheets to take the shape of you,
And silent sighing pillow-tops exude
your scent, how do I see the night-time through?
If longing breezes rat-tat on my glass,
Curled soft into the likeness of your hand,
And floorboards moan, as if to feel you pass,
How can I wake each day? How can I stand?
If crowds contrive to conjure up your face,
And, mesmerised by yearning, I collide
with echoes of your breath at every pace,
How can I walk? How can I step outside?
And yet, because you built this purgatory,
Its walls are strangely beautiful to me.
31 December 18
For Beautiful Sadness Contest
Hosted by John Hamilton