I longed for your touch - and "burnt my fingers*
On a page of a book" kept next your heart;
So that in a kind of prison memory lingers
Fading slowly as we drift apart;
As your elusive beauty now surrenders
To this poetic page, stanzas impart
That to which I tell of our loves essence
Subtle as the twilight's evanescence.

Do you think of me still? - for 'oft I think of you -
Are you satisfied and happy with your life?
Our love was platonic - although no less true -
And you may be contented as a wife.
Sometimes I do fancy (on days when I feel blue)
What could have been (perhaps) - had not fate's knife -
Cut our love in twain - and separated -
That for which we fought - and strove - and hated.

We shared a love of horses - and of things equestrian
Although we shared too little of our time.
This life (so short it seems) is too pedestrian
(Those moments wasted really were a crime).
I think of destiny and things celestial -
And to this poem now add another line,
Perhaps - after all - you were too good for me:
I just wish we could talk now - by telepathy?

Danielle for you - I now write courtly verses -
And for posterity record my love
Forgive my feelings now in these discourses
Emotions that were once a treasure trove
I take this muse in hand as one does horses
(Just to think that we were made in stars above!)
For my Pegasus now prances in the sand -
Where once I saw you riding there so grand.


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