A sad little poem. I've been here many times in my youth. Trust me, he murmurs,
her ear a pink shell
curved to receive his bounty,
the treasury of his words.
Her days were frozen, waiting.
Her nights drowned by longing.
Now, once her oasis,
his arid arms leave her hollow.
His words are base metal.
I don’t love you, she murmurs,
as she allows his trust to fall from her hands
like rusty nails.
