My love gave me an emerald brooch, tucked snugly in satin soft
He whispered sweet nothings, in murmurs hushed
Wrote poems delectable, the substance, nothing much
Of the days to come, my love muttered, don’t say or fuss
In nights he sang away all his hurt
Speak naught of the places he so softly touched
My love embodied the dichotomy of being, kissed rushed, caressed gently
Said things so right, and said things so wrong
For me either did, nothing much
Of promises made, my love screamed, nothing was said or conceived
And in days he grew distant, cold and lurch
Speak naught of the heart, he could never touch
A DESI MUFFIN 