I listen to your breathing.
Even, quiet, sleeping.
A thief, I creep and
Turn the sheet
To lay myself to sleep.
Should I touch?
Would you awake?
Enfold me in your arms?
Make me safe?
No, I am old,
Dreams are gone.
Such loving thoughts
Are not a part of me.
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Poetry
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| Regrets. | |
| By Diddi | ||||||||
| 28 March 2008 | ||||||||
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No matter what age we are, we dream as if we were still in our youth.
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