I was in love and . . . . . . .

by Paul Balfe

. . . . . . . and I didn’t know it until
Missing clenched me in its steely grip,
Gnawing at my very soul and sanity.
Your laughter, infectious as it was,
Breached the fortress of my heart
and I defied gravity — for a while at least.
There was sunshine everyday
Or so it seemed, but I was blind
To the treasure that was, no . . . . is you.

And now the ethereal mists of silence
Envelop my shriveling world
Moulding a straitjacket of my grief.
Oh Mr. Shelley, how I cling to those words
“If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?”