Paper and Parchment, Love and Lost

a Shakespearean love poem born of fantasy

I write my woman on the wall.
Drawn in words and letters.
Clothed only in the tenderest of ink,
loosely splayed across her shoulders
and down her wispy back.
Flowing,
Catching a gust of wind as
she steps off the wallpaper.
We greet as only two lost lovers can...
A tight embrace...
of lips.
of hips.
I can feel her, hold her,
know she's mine
fondle her softly...
(she may tear if I am not gentle).
My quill dips and flutters,
and now her hair develops -
envelopes my hand.
As red as dawn,
(for the color of the sun itself
would be painful to stare at
for such long periods of time.)
She is not painful.
For she is nothing but a visage.
Yet my black jar is full,
so my descriptions may
linger...
Her skin now resembles my own
(Not unlike a rose petal)
it has texture and taste...
so sweet,
so full,
as warm as candlelight
that makes her glow in the dark.
So warm she burns me.
Her hair becomes black.
Her skin now parchment
and flaking against my skin.
My stained fingernails straining
to grasp one last hold
of her heaving bosom,
but...
her smooth features fade.
Once again,
resembling simple scrawling,
of the words that so delicately describe her.

The shadows consume her,
and yet
my thoughts linger,
so real
To me...
As real as the candle
that makes her glow in the night.
And burn.
Even the flames
cannot dry my cheeks
as my only everything
slowly cracks and floats
away on a gale of words,
a wisp of a wish,
and a heart that can bear no more.

Reviews

[The Elder Pine]

Wow this is a stinning piece. Your lines are amazing and engaging, I really enjoyed this piece. Very well done.

"I write my woman on the wall.
Drawn in words and letters.
Clothed only in the tenderest of ink,
loosely splayed across her shoulders
and down her wispy back.
Flowing,
Catching a gust of wind as
she steps off the wallpaper.
We greet as only two lost lovers can...
A tight embrace...
of lips.
of hips.
I can feel her, hold her,
know she's mine
fondle her softly...
(she may tear if I am not gentle).
My quill dips and flutters,
and now her hair develops -
envelopes my hand.
As red as dawn,
(for the color of the sun itself
would be painful to stare at
for such long periods of time.)
She is not painful.
For she is nothing but a visage.
Yet my black jar is full,
so my descriptions may
linger...
Her skin now resembles my own
(Not unlike a rose petal)
it has texture and taste...
so sweet,
so full,
as warm as candle
that makes her glow in the dark.
So warm she burns me.
Her hair becomes black.
Her skin now parchment
and flaking against my skin.
My stained fingernails straining
to grasp one last hold
of her heaving bosom,
but...
her smooth features fade.
Once again,
resembling simple scrawling,
of the words that so delicately describe her.

The shadows consume her,
and yet
my thoughts linger,
so real
To me...
As real as the candle
that makes her glow in the night.
And burn.
Even the flames
cannot dry my cheeks
as my only everything
slowly cracks and floats
away on a gale of words,
a wisp of a wish,
and a heart that can bear no more."

[A Shell]

O.O .... Have i told you lately, how utterly talented you are? this is a beautiful BEAUTIFUL poem! and i fail at words so i can't even tell you how TRULY awesome it is! a clever and fanciful piece of work.

miss you hope to hear from you soon
XOXOXOX

[Tomás Ó C..]

I love the language used here.

[Siddartha Beth Pierce]

What a lovely poem...intriquing write...to fall in love per se with one's creations. This is quite stunning. A wonderful tale woven. Thank you for sharing.
Light,
Siddartha