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
but
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