Another from the archives of a younger, lonelier, me…..
by Cheryl Pennington
My heart, like an empty goblet,
longs to be filled again.
Your touch, intoxicating as any
could fill me so.
My hands, like the wind in the trees,
long to caress your body,
to feel the quiver beneath my fingers,
as the leaves quiver beneath the touch
of the breeze.
My body, like a song with no music,
longs for the rhythm of yours-
movement for movement, changing the notes
My life, like an unfinished script,
pages clean and empty,
longs for you to lift the pen and write the story.
But how will it end?