Siren's Call
Loose lips speak a truth,
held close in my breath,
that I exhale to call out to
my own wasted youth.
Loath to move from this.
From being softly struck dumb
by your fine hair and smile,
and the gaze and words that
so gently bound my wounds.
My hurt is a Sirens call.
With a face now mapped
with long days of wear,
stripped of joy that
from birth slowly died.
I have kept nothing.
But a memory of your touch.
And your hands,
so slender and thin,
that I was afraid almost
to touch your fine skin.
When I remember love
I feel truely shaken.
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