The mirror holds a warped reflection,
fun-house style,
of fading charm,
need and ego.
Pride is an ugly master.
The sun burns and wind obscures
but in the blue haze of your evening
the touch of your hand comforts me,
soothing insecurities for the night,
leaving bruises by morning.
Time is the cruelest of friends.
A thoughtful gesture,
a kind word,
and I'll keep all your secrets.
I hope you'll be gentle with mine.
Love is suspect.
Memory is counterfeit.
All is vanity.
2 comments:
Sounds like one of those relationships/encounters full of regret.
June 11, 2012 at 10:59 AMfull of small bits of wisdom that
June 23, 2012 at 9:07 AMbecome large upon examination.
written like a secret.
time can be cruel depending on
our mindset and a warm hand is
always, most times a comfort.
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