because I had no cash for long-stemmed roses,
because I had no credit for the box
of chocolates, I penned for her my sonnet
left upon her pillow before the skulking
off to leave our memory sweet, let us part
in silence and with the air of mystery,
our potential still potential and never
tears but a wistful smile lurking on lips
where memory remains fresh of kisses
stolen in curtained darkness away from
the moon in her argent jealousies and
far from the world of worries whence we both
sought respite in a night’s cuddle, a night’s
fantasy of love still sweet in its time.
David M Pitchford
24 Nov 2011
paint it iambic 