Alone, my room is cold and empty
While I think there must be plenty
Words awaiting just beyond the reach of my imprisoned brain;
Still I grasp for self-expression,
Knowing I must make confession,
if I am to conquer this, to make a literary gain.
I suffer silence, lacking nightly
That which I'd been using rightly
'Til my words escaped and I was left with nothing more to say;
Rack my mind with constant fervor,
Wond'ring if I might deserve her,
Realizing it's my guilt that makes me now still feel this way.
We wandered the streets aimlessly
And silence once more cornered me
When she next uttered words to me beneath the streetlight's misty glow;
She said without a look, "I'm leaving."
How could I explain my grieving
For this thing I'd barely had and never fully come to know?
The greatest loss is loss of chance,
To know that every second glance
Could be your last and you may never get to see her face again;
Potential's its own entity
And so has personality,
For which it's possible to grieve, just like a well-beloved friend.
Stanzas 1, 2, 8, and 9 of 16--obviously there's a lot more, but you get the idea.
I had the meter in my head and needed to write about this, but think it might be prudent not to publish the rest at the current time.
Needs some revision.