Please note this is not based on my present day life but on the experiences of my youth...
Hearts in Heat
She hears my voice, she reads my words
She feels the brush of my fingertips
She knows she can’t possess my heart
So she puts a trembling finger to my lips
I hold her tight, as our passion ignites
I stroke her hair of sun bleached silk
I run my tongue along her neck
So smooth like pure white milk
She whispers my name in the light of day
She cries it out in the lonely night
She loves me yet she hates me too
Her love’s our candle burning bright
I know its wrong but I’m not strong
I should just walk the other way
I hear her voice across the wires
She knows she can have me any day
She takes my hand and tells me hush
She won’t let me say goodbye
She’ll settle for what I can give
As she breathes that weary sigh.
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Reviews of "Hearts in Heat"
Reviewed by Judy Lloyd (Reader)
Reviewed on March 11, 2005
Well this sounds a lot like myself when I was much younger.
Reviewed by Monette Bebow-Reinhard (Reader)
Reviewed on March 11, 2005
Beautiful. Sigh. It is true, youth is wasted on the young! (grin) Thanks for sharing these deep poignant memories.
Monette
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Robin Ouzman Hislop's poetry is certainly in dialogue with some of the key architects of the 'poetics of indeterminacy' – both the Modernist strands represented by the likes of Beckett and Stein, and the postmodernist strands represented, initially,
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