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
