The Man and his loves by roovacrag

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The Man and his loves

by roovacrag

Posted: 28 December 2003
Word Count: 137

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I am his best friend:
He is the man
Just a man
Every woman
Wants him
Needs him?
Oh yes
Desires him?
Yes
Why?
Not so much
For his body's lust
More
For his mind
And his spirit
But he is more than
They want

Sure
They desire him
They secretly love him
But they can't
Have him
They can't quite
Handle it
- Their feelings
Unless they fight for it

After all
If it's worth having
Then you must fight for it
Else it must be nothing

The man has questions
He spoke:
Do you regret
Finding me?
Meeting me?
Liking me?
Loving me?
At the end of the day
Do you really want me?
Are you sure you want me?

Falling in love is not easy
But just grab it:
For it only happens once

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Comments by other Members

Bobo at 13:24 on 29 December 2003 Report this post

Alice - so very true. Love, true love, is rarer than most believe. When it's within reach we muct grab it with both hands and hold on tight. Never easy, but then nothing worthwhile ever is! Beautifully written.

BoBo x

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Fearless at 18:04 on 29 December 2003 Report this post

Whisky Al

I can relate to this piece totally. Yep, as BoBo says, grab it tight and hold on for the ride. But it doesn't always work out like this.

If you were to make it a series, the next one could be on parting. This thought reminded me of two poems from the (almost) forgotten past:

White Heliotrope, by Arthur Symons

The feverish room and that white bed,
The tumbled skirts upon a chair,
The novel flung half-open, where
Hat, hair-pins, puffs, and paints are spread;

The mirror that has sucked your face
Into its secret deep of deeps,
And there mysteriously keeps
Forgotten memories of grace;

And you half dressed and half awake,
Your slant eyes strangely watching me,
And I, who watch you drowsily,
With eyes that, having slept not, ache;

This (need one dread? nay, dare one hope?)
Will rise, a ghost of memory, if
Ever again my handkerchief
Is scented with White Heliotrope.

Music, by Shelley

Music, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory --
Odours, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken.

Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
Are heap'd for the beloved's bed;
And so thy thoughts when thou are gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.

Even though you part, you are not angry, nor bitter. You will always fondly remember, and always love.

Thanks Al.

Fearless

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roovacrag at 19:02 on 30 December 2003 Report this post

Thanxs for the poems.x

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