My hands no longer hold pride,
but rather, withered and drawn,
they grasp the air between us,
warring ‘gainst wages of years,
unable to hold on as once was.
My mouth may oft speak low,
no longer needing to cry out,
or proclaim beauty once held,
but rather, silent, lingers here,
and awaits the kiss you offer.
My eyes see not what you are,
but rather, what you had been,
tho’ unaltered beauty remains,
my gaze has blurred of its gold,
dim, but for your flame of solace.
My breath dare not fall again,
but rather, thrust forth to you,
that with heated want and staid,
may I but breathe less than sigh,
to be the fire you once enraged.
My heart may not be so strong,
but rather, weak of heady wear,
none that had borne me disdain,
but rather, had felt such tremble,
that, left without, I turn to stone.