Yet again you speak,
I hesitated, I was weak
I couldn’t tell you how I felt.
I withdrew instead of melt.
Why is it that so often
Our confessions of love
Are nothing more than interrogation?
I refuse to answer. This is how I am.
A book : that isn’t open, nor is named.
It is the reader that ordains
The words with all their meaning
Why is it that so often
We forget it only takes a brief moment
In the dark to begin seeing again?
You refuse to look.
Then the book, she still remains
Unopened with her truest feelings.
In the dark of night, the wildest chapters trot.
Like horses, never to be tamed
By those that aren’t brave
By those that aren’t free
Patiently.
donika emille 