Discretion

I can't ask how she is doing. Brows would rise,
And words would pass in whispers. “Why's
He want to know?” I cannot say, “Because
We're lovers.” She would blanch, and I'd
Be scorned at best; more likely, told to go,
And our infrequent trysts would end, and
The one woman, out of billions, who has
Found some good in me, would be, forever,
Not just years, sequestered, always out
Of reach, and my weak heart would break.
I probably would die, and, having done so,
Would not ever learn how she has been.




Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 31 times
Written on 2018-01-27 at 01:03

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josephus The PoetBay support member heart!
You have a deft hand at your work, my friend.
2018-01-27


Ashe The PoetBay support member heart!
It's a quagmire, isn't it? Best to let it be.
Ashe
2018-01-27