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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

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