Still [sonnet]
Reluctantly and sweetly deep within
a stark confession [w]rings me like a bell.
Defences that I’ve built are wearing thin.
I’m still in love with you with every cell.
I thought the surge would soon grow dim with time
alongside faded swells of passion shared;
like ripples on a lake which lost their prime
the further from the centre splash they erred.
The drug you are (on which I loverdosed)
had been out of my system for a while.
But now you float and haunt me like a ghost:
an ectoplasmic centripetal smile.
We never had the chance before to bloom.
Within this finite cosmos is there room?
© Alan Morrison, 2013
The Naked Troubadour 