E - Dispassion And This Passion

DISPASSION AND THIS PASSION

The years have travelled slowly. I've fumbled in the dark.
Love has withered on the vine, and hope has left its mark.
You married your first lover, while I took what I could.
Your marriage is now shattered, whilst mine is black with blood.

You're lonely in betrayal. I'm hungry for some fear.
And when we talk, we reach out, but the reaching is a leer.
I think you wish I'd comfort you. I sometimes wish you'd ask,
but consequence and courage hold up friendship as a mask.

The years have turned your beauty from warm to blinding light.
The years have made me wither. I hate myself at night.
The years would make it easier, but wouldn't make it work,
for lust and love are quagmires, where guilt and pain both lurk.

I can't kill obligations or dispossess the past.
I can't hurt those who succour me to love you, girl, at last,
just to feel your spirit moving, or pacify my need,
to live with you forever, or consummate my greed.

I sit alone a while, remembering your smile,
the years we've taken cover, my omnipresent guile.
I have a place of sympathy. I also own despair.
And in my place of sympathy, I don't know you are there.