Precious Heart of a Past Life
Her skin was softer than a lullaby.
A tune so simple, I’d wished the words were my own.
That voice embraced a song, just so she could set it free.
As she sang, I had to hide the tears.
Her own hair, the color women pay for, left a strand on my coat.
It was part of what defined her beauty.
I insisted she was number one, no matter how sensitive she was.
Weak and selfish, my light shined through her voids.
She answered sweetly to the name only I could call her.
Then painted a picture of her reservations.
A new sense of complication emerged from the rose-colored trench.
And I pitied my intentions.
She came and went until something better became obvious.
I paved that road for which she danced.
Aromatic memories of her perfume are reduced to ash.
I now live my new book, where the words are my own.