Sunday, 6 January 2013

The Un-kissed Hours

I read books for company.

I read books to fill me.

finishing a book is a like a funeral

or the aftermath of great sex.

the un-kissed hours.

a void of the unspoken.

bliss at half price

where desolation reigns


where words are found.

there is nothing more intimate

than silence.

are we flirting

or just talking ?

flirting will be the death of love.

but I am bereft.

a worn out cynic.

solitude is a soul breaker.

solitude is a man maker.

just like vulnerable buttons on a blouse.

we all come undone too easily.

bravado just covers the blushes of

a socially inept fool.

a recluse.

never expecting much

but hoping

all the same.

at times I mourn all these years

not having someone to love

and to love me back.

life seems unfair.

some of us are just born not to be desired

or noticed.

condemned to writing about it.

but I can unearth a muse.

I bet you can't.

I expect you just drown in smiles.

sip the melancholia.

it may become you.

during the

un-kissed hours.

© 2013 © T. A. Roberts