Here I am again
with pen in hand and a dim light
and as I write, I read as well,
I read "Solitude"
and in solitude I find myself again
And if not by choice
it could be by chance,
which one is it? I cannot tell,
as I often ask the same question myself.
I feel the touch of the blankets
softly and unintentionally caressing me,
such delicate and silky skin,
it is soft, it is pure
and I feel their touch
I wonder, where are you tonight?
I write from my heart, not from above in my head,
I think at times about my thoughts
and wonder, how can a grown woman dream?
Yes, dream I said
of such pure and true love,
when she has none
and even when she is the center of the universe,
she finds herself, alone, again, and again.