Flowers on Her Doorstep

When I younger was
without anyone, anywhere
I met someone, who touched my heart

She was in love you see
just not being
with me, making my loneliness
seem all the stronger, emphasizing
the weaker side of me,

We wrote prose
to each other, and others yet
during when I was young at doing
and she was older, and much wiser
not love poems,
as they would reveal too much
with too few words, as such

Just sharing a cup of tea
while the time, when I was younger
grew older, and I
in my loneliness, sought
someone to share my pain with,

Loneliness is a strange beast
tearing, and causing
distress, with longing for someone
you cannot, will not have
eating away at your sensibilities
hidden deep down inside,

She went her way, and I mine
never would I tell her, how I felt
nor would we be lovers
passionately the nights through
waking in the same place
that used to be lonely,

I chanced to visit the city
of where she then called home
and in my hands, flowers
not a potted plant that told of friendship
better a bouquet of flowers
saying what I never seemed to
never could,

Not home was she
and just as well,
our prose days with flowers fading
and tea that had gone cold in the cup
had faded away, as she had
faded away from me

Flowers on her doorstep
lying there, with a small note
one of greetings and goodbyes
never answered, not ever
never knowing where she’d gone
or, who she chanced to love

just not being me…

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Author: notthedane56

My early morning thoughts have been spilling out upon my virtual paper, still free of worldwide computer vira, as far as I know? Just think, if my words actually were the result of an infection, corrupting and twisting the truth as others know it? Sounds a bit like blogging...

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