A poem of a sad and recurring truth.
|As I lay here in bed, unable to sleep, I think of her every moment, in her absence, I weep.
I could tell her, without trouble, how she is my light, through collapsed rubble.
But we see through different eyes, her and I, for without me, she is fine, yet without her, I die.
So I lay and cry, here on this bed, wishing only to feel her presence under my head.
I want to confess, to speak of my love, but my mind tells me no, like a sign from above.
So I wait until I slumber, just to start again, thinking again of her, my heart cannot mend.
Once awake, I close my eyes once more; my cries not heard, through this thick wooden door.
I wish for only her, not another for me, but her without me is nothing to see.
I need only her love, to pull me through this life, though since her love is not mine, I must wait for the night.
I could tell her, easily, all of my feelings, yet I stop myself, looking towards the ceiling.
I see a dark road ahead, without her light, but it is what's to be, as we see through different eyes.