The light from the neon sign
penetrated the tiny room and
a silhouetted form
sat motionless on the bed
holding her head in hand,
gazing at the wooden floor
beneath her bare feet.
Unable to voice her feelings
tears displayed her loneliness;
rhythmically her lashes
closed in an attempt to
blot out the moments that
were once vividly alive,
sharing with a
mirrored image of
all that she was not.
To feel her blond hair gently
being pulled and tangled
by the hands of the lover
from whom she had been taught.
The pain of patience
heightened the sensuousness
of every second spent
in each other’s arms;
arms that no longer and
must always remain as a
memory better left hidden.
March 1977
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