Strange it is, this Monday new,
Without thy scorn, so oft I knew.
“’Tis fine,” I lie to the mirrors’ eyes,
Pretending all is as the night.

For I have slept in restless state,
Replaying moments, early, late,
The unusual routine, our fleeting art,
The only gift I can impart.

How many words could I bestow
With but a glance thou’dst surely know?
And yet thou speakest, talk and talk,
While I, a fool, in dismay, balk.

Perchance I grasp it now, or not,
In love’s embrace, my soul is caught,
To drown within a drink’s despair,
In trifling words that fill the air.

No sense it makes, or maybe so,
To scream within me chamber’s glow;
Upon the wall “Life’s like this”,
Though one such life sufficeth me.

How many words I have to share
Yet write in silence, unaware?
While thou dost speak, thou dost part
And I, a fool, still, with a silent heart.

Stay. This I pray, a moment more,
Where time itself doth halt and adore
And all is simple, all is new.

Lie to me, my only love, make it true.
Say this moment will ne’er wane,
This perfect moment, free from pain.

Then hide me in a dream’s embrace
For thus, my dear, I’ll leave no trace.

Marco Delrio

My Only Love