She Reads Herself In My Face
I fell in love with her sorrows.
We shared a mask that we spoke through,
a mail-box for wordless hungers.
Passion maimed us,
even I shed tears, sensing
a Puccini last act approaching.
She read herself in my face.
I gave her news, long-range forecasts,
but she insisted in her desperate belief
that I would always be around
to mop her up.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2020
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