A Mystery To Me
What she thought of all I’d just said
Would remain a mystery, as so much
About her remained a mystery to me,
Since that most wretched day when she
Told me she didn’t want to see me
Anymore. She might not even open
My message and read it. I certainly
Didn’t expect a reply. It was like groping
In the dark every time I tried to talk
With her. If she was there, listening,
She was deathly quiet, ready to walk
The moment I came too near.
Time heals all wounds, they say,
But perhaps this was more serious
Than a wound. Perhaps it was
A permanent rift. How sad
That would be, for me. Because,
If true, I had lost what was dear.
Like this. Feels like the theme to nearly every short story I’ve written.
It’s a theme that runs through many of these poems too. Glad to get your comment.