Here’s a bit of Irish melancholy at the end of St. Patrick’s Day:


Seconds, minutes, hours, days

with no sign from


I convince myself again

you are trying to convince yourself


your arms don’t hold the same hungry

longing for the sanctuary of our embrace,

your lips don’t crave the soul-deep

kiss as yet unshared,

your aching heart doesn’t swell with

promising love half-heartedly denied


You call and nothing else matters except


Daniel J. Cox


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