love getting away/missing. A constant theme in my poetry before I had realized my abuse. Of course, looking back I can see it all for what it was but in the days when I wrote this, I was just lost and confused about why my intimacy mechanisms seemed to be non-existent. You see at the end that I have this great passion, I feel it anyhow, and nowhere to put it... Also, I'll never write another sonnet because it is a pain in the ass!
You have made your continental escape
so far away, a mile for each sweet kiss
we kissed and all our lives now on we’ll miss
what would have been the wine from our love’s grape.
It seems a shame to let it sit so late
in the bottom of the bottle remiss.
Never to be savored over these lips
from whose kisses the wine comes in its wake.
Because I think in you I learned to love
I wanted to give this love to you alone
as if the meat from plants you toiled to plant
but now I find these roots in hand, a grove
that yearns to touch the soil, to sleeve the bone
to drink the wine beside what grows so giant.
The whole world changes in a single bloom- Me in a poem