Wren

These hands that once held you so tight Have held many others, yet you were so right The fingers that grasped your skin, they held your essence They've stroked few others since, yet have you not rinsed Sweet soft skin that glided, slipped under my touch Is now free, aloft, for others to malign, enrough You wanted to soar, sail, live above my simple view Now you have it, experience it, is it worth it, ingenue?* I tell myself that you are gone, forever lost, weak Yet in my mind you are pure lass, hard, virginity You wouldn't speak to me of the past you had You painted a picture of pain gone, me new fallow land Yet were you someone else, a free spirit only becalmed That I came across and stood with, a stable palm frond Or were you a different person, that fooled me complete Were you a nymph, brought to me in moment of weak Now you're gone, you said coldly you wanted aught else And I gasp and grasp as what we once knew, held The knife in my chest upon which I down-look Is still here, your lash, your now ever-last-hook Christ but it hurts, when I let your image come in That we could have been so much, if it had only been Did you peel away at last moment because you were fake wren* Or because it was but temp respite, and we are meant I do not want to believe that the stars ordain us For it causes me burning, painful, magmatic crust I want to know that you are that fake, bleeding sore But I am afraid to look, to know that we were but ordure*.. * Ingenue - French - a young woman who is endearingly innocent and wholesome * Wren - king of birds * Ordure - fecal matter