The Parting


My heartbeats measure the night.
How many weeks now has sleep mocked me?
How many months?
Late in the breathing hours when
My blood’s rhythm drowns my mind,
When I softly touch oblivion –
My hands betray me.

Through my fingertips pulses
The feel of you;
My treacherous hands throb down your body
Until their aching need pervades my thighs –
My heart – my soul.
But I have nothing –
Only the feel of you in my fingers.

Cynthia Buell Thomas


Wonderful poem from a fellow poetess whose profile can be found below on Write Out Loud:

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