How strange it is

How strange it is

How strange it is that I can feel your pain,
fashion a poem from your point of view, and yet,

I cannot resist finishing your sentences. Thinking I know
what you're about to say, I end up with no idea but my own. 

Over and over, I've slammed the door on your words,
sent them packing unheard, without noticing the hurt I've caused.

I've missed out on the songs of your soul,
the poetry of your heart, the playground of your mind.

Here I sit once more, traveling through your psyche
after having just discarded the map.

It’s like I’ve traveled miles of forest throughout our married years
only to end up standing in my own two footprints

and still, I don’t even know the man who shares my bed.
Saying I'm sorry seems so insufficient.  Perhaps, this time, I'll just listen.

Because there's a man I'd like to get to know before our time is up, and I hope,
when you let me in,  I'll not leave my muddy footprints upon your tentative words.


SWPoet
11-22-2010

Above: Newest version

How strange it is

How strange it is
that I can feel your thoughts,
write them on paper,
fashion a poem of your pain,
but yet, I cannot resist
finishing your sentences.

Over and over,
I've slammed the door to your words,
and sent them packing unheard.

And it is I who misses out
on the songs of your soul.
It is I who turns my back
to the poetry of your heart
or the playground of your mind.

Here I sit once more,
attempting to travel through your psyche
after having discarded the map.

It’s like I’ve traveled miles of highway
throughout our married years
only to end up standing
in my own two footprints

and still, I don’t even know
the man who shares my bed.
For that, my love,
I am truly sorry.


SWPoet
11-22-2010