It’s late, and I should be asleep
but, my heart, it longs for her
what is this torture
how we left
I know that I would drink her full
should she be a glass
lifted to my parched red lips
and yet the page is turned
and in my phantom heart
where love once dwelled
some brave new species of this pain
is born
what Darwin would have catalogued
is called my broken hearted phase
bereft and blown wide open now
I saunter on, an unkempt cow
beleaguered like a dreamless night
I’ll hold this sadness in my heart
Phantom Heart
By
