The beauty I might feel with sharing you with the world,
such magic in an energy
we could
touch
could feel like the rhythm of piano keys
following a melody
in the twilight of a wintry night.
A certain pang of envy comes across my mind,
when I see a couple
sharing hands and smiles
and frost bitten cheeks,
yet there is
a chance to put lips upon one another,
feel the heat of
unbridled passion,
the sort we look for in
a cheesy movie,
or in a found love.
I’m choosing real memory now,
those that allow me to
delve into the sweet elixir of yours and mine,
and ours,
and starlit galaxies
that define a world
far beyond our
short occupation
of this our
fantasy
some stretch of imagination,
never have I allowed
to interfere
with my own reality.
Oh, it might be possible
to waltz away a moment
with a triggered rejection
of this energy so compelling
there was nothing ever so close as
the real fee of my hand upon her cheek,
the warmth felt when
she guided her whole self
into my waiting arms,
to hold
to cherish
to know real love
is worth
a year beheld in tear.
I’m writing stories now,
because I refuse to diminish love
© Scott F Savage 5/2020
Personal Testimony 