By: Paulo Lorenzo Garcia

“Tonight I Can Write the Saddest Lines,”
Said Pablo Neruda.
But be that as it may
My soul swivels in harsh repose
Beneath a scarcely rippled sheet
In response to a rhapsody astray

A gash in the open sky
A constriction left of center
Such was the mark of my admiration unavowed
I don’t love her; I always will
To not love her is to never have met her
It is nights like these that I lie awake
Flat on my back
Glancing at the scarcely moving hands of time
It is ten to one
My chances of getting some sleep tonight
Is slim to none.
I don’t need her, but I admittedly do…
Through nights like these
When a lone star’s golden glimmer
Fades into a cold steel blue,
I recall how I love her
And I wonder if she loves me too.
But mostly, she just callously cuts me…
Hardly does the moonlight flash and flit
And in this night, I lie here
In dissatisfaction that her soul I couldn’t keep.
The very thought of my eyes searching hers
Even for the faintest simmer
Yanks me from my sleep,
The very thought of losing
What I can never have is
Like staples on the sinews of my heart.
I tell myself that she loves me
Like the grass welcomes the dew
But deep inside my heart I knew…
So let this be the last night, I bleed for you…
Let this be the last lie I tell myself
In lieu of you.
And finally,
Let these be the final verses I write
That allude to you.