Siren's Call

Loose lips speak a truth, held close in my breath, that I exhale to call out to my own wasted youth. Loath to move from this. From being softly struck dumb by your fine hair and smile, and the gaze and words that so gently bound my wounds. My hurt is a Sirens call. With a face now mapped with long days of wear, stripped of joy that from birth slowly died. I have kept nothing. But a memory of your touch. And your hands, so slender and thin, that I was afraid almost to touch your fine skin. When I remember love I feel truely shaken.