Heathcliff

I’ll be your Heathcliff,

straining to hear your voice

in the wild winds

that tear across the winter moors,

whirling and screaming

their pain; 

I’ll be your Heathcliff,

lying awake at night

in case your cold fingers

come scratching at my window,

clawing and grasping

their way in; 

I’ll be your Heathcliff,

slowly dying inside

as you frivolously meander

hand in hand with another,

pretending she fills your soul

overflowing; 

I’ll be your Heathcliff,

when Hell freezes over

and the sunlight comes again

across the summer moors,

through my window

I’ll let you in again.

 

©ACG

19 April 2013