A Woman’s Love is Brief
A poem
A woman’s love is brief.
Tied down by fixation and degradation.
Affected by a firework of injustice.
Lured down from high by a floating dreamer in his cloak of stealth; the blue-eyed boy from the myth.
I’m not afraid of the dark, but I am afraid of the brevity of a short affair. An affair of glazed champagne flutes and hotel stays.
It's pink and shimmery until it’s not, charring until it crumbles in my lap.
My quest for what is right is met with pregnant pauses and an icy reception. Red cubes of soap find themselves a home in the snaky gaps in my teeth.
A woman’s love is brief. A cosy hamlet in the underdeveloped mind. A cosy hamlet in the glossy heart.
A woman’s love is brief when by the end of the week, she winds up standing on the same street corner watching someone walk away for the final time.
Disappearing into the panoramic body of light that is the moving world.
A woman’s love is brief.
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