If only things were different.
I would create a little heaven for you.
Yet I can’t as I am in my own hell and to ask you to share it with me would be asking for too much.
Every night I hold onto you so I can wake up again.
As the threads that should hold me down have slowly unraveled and left me with but a single string called hope that needs a face so it won’t break.
I remember with much pain the adoring glances you used to send my way.
Now poverty has made me a no go area.
These days I am lucky if I can even get a glimpse of your face at night when you flash yourself to drivers in the avenues.
That you have chosen to sell yourself to put food on the table is hard enough for me to accept.
Yet I do, as the economic environment has not given any of us a choice.
Even though business is slow for few have money to spend on carnal pleasures of the body when hunger knocks at their door every other minute.
My inadequacy yawns like the ocean and swallows me into depths I can’t escape.
Yet endure I must this torture as I have no means of altering our situations