Time hurries on

I hold your memory;

Your tacit form within

My strangled grasp

Of desperation. I cling to

The aspiration that your

Face will be the first

To begin my day. Anew,

I reach with labored limbs

Into the waning moonlight.

To bathe my tears in the ache

That never sleeps; recoiled

Around an innocence stolen

Between bitter sheets and

Breaking dawn. Still, morning

Always harbors a distaste in

My cotton mouth, and I

Yearn in futile whispers

For the promise of your beck

And call; to face another,

Otherwise moribund morn.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Written in the fall of my freshman year of college, revolving more around my homesickness than the sexual undertones.  17 years old.

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