Valentine Still Sleeps

I rode to her grave. Cycled hard.

13 miles of hills & rain & solemn contemplation.

Cemetery empty & dark.

I took her my card. To talk of love.

The stars sparkled as I sat beside her. & I wished and dreamt & missed her so.

I whispered soft adoration & I pictured her in front of me.

When we danced. When we kissed.

When we used to just stand & breathe & hold & in slow caress we’d love.

Fresh Red roses shone for her last night. Under the moon’s sad light.

I was lost.

Her death had brought the dog. An unforgiving black beast. A perpetual companion.

& we sat there & thought. Imagined. Pined.

But many a hour did not relieve the angst of her loss.

My grief at her death has not transformed.

Her stolen body leaves an empty hole.

Her beauty faded into earth’s forgotten dust.

She doesn’t care. For her tombstone is not her burden. Her reminder.

So I broke down & watched the world burn.

I hate these days. These ends to the night.

For the dead have nothing to say. They remain as silent as the living.

& I wished I could lie down n die too. Let the flood drown me.

End it.

Isn’t that the only way she’ll return? The only way we can be as one?

But the dead know of no pain. Nor do the ignorant.

So I waited for sleep. Or for her to rise.

& notice me.

Instead, the hours just slowly drifted past.

& I woke up this morning, eyes wet & sore.

Her stolen diary pressed to my body.

Maybe one day I’ll read it.

Maybe one day I’ll get the truth.

Maybe one day I’ll get to kiss my lover again.

~ a night spent with my girl

© Ed Simkins

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