Dead Heat

Dead Heat Reflecting from the surface, bright and still of my own pool of dismal memory, your face, sometimes it glows, as if it will present itself once more to what I see; I shouldn't think about your flesh the way I do though soft and eager for someone to touch, but having loved the best, and that was you, 'tis near impossible to say how much you filled my life, but then you died from me, and all this love is unfulfilled today; so I have taken it in hand, you see, for no one's ever loved me that same way. I close mine eyes, and you are almost there the picture of fulfilling love somewhere.