Passion, let me hear your chime
If only for a little time;
a week, a day, a fleeting hour,
to feed imagination's flower.
A kiss meant just to build a dream
from lightning lips on syrup stream.
Longing fingers twirling hair,
a gentle touch on shoulders bare.
Imaginative eyes, yet frail
Undressing, following the trail.
Panting breath and racing heart
startled, stopped and torn apart.
Here I stand, empty, broken, lone,
feeling distant, mind from bone.
Love beside me, vacant, cold,
wrapped around his finger, sold.
Dream is shattered, flowers dead
without kisses meant as bread.