He waits with flowers.
How can I tell him it's too late,
That what he's hoping for is gone?
He likes my dress: I see it
In his eyes before he says the words.
I step into his embrace
Still warmed, still moved by yours.
In my mind I feel only you.
I smell your hair, your skin,
The scent of sweat and love.
He holds me tight but I'm not there.
Your words stir me, echo in my mind.
His voice sounds unfamiliar,
Yet still so much a part of me
I know what he will say before he does.
His world, a fragile, hope-filled globe
Of blown-glass frailty, depends on me.
How can I smash it to pieces,
Let it fall and break on my stone heart?
He waits with flowers,
And I take them.
Copyright 1994, Diana W. Smith, All Rights Reserved