Between The Pages Of A Book
U Uriah Hamilton
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The candle burns low
in the quiet night
strangled by frustration,
and I feel meager
in all the hopeless pursuits
of this winding down existence.
I'm no longer in love,
I'm no longer ardent
for the perfume
that caresses the wrist
or the nape of any neck.
I'm not unfailing
at acts of chivalry,
I'm not attentive
to the words that proceed
from any particular pair
of feminine lips.
I've left bouquets
on stairways
and walked away;
I've left a wedding ring
between the pages of a book
I will not read again.
Eventually,
all that remains is farewell:
first, to cherished loved ones;
and, then finally, to one's self.
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