PRECIPICE

I stand on the edge, poised against a bright horizon.
Dare I step forward ­ into the unknown?

His voice is warm in my ear,
His words on paper, screen, or phone melt my heart.
I ache to hold him.
But still I wonder.
There have been others.
I have read his words to them
Imprisoned butterflies in the ephemeral amber of the internet.

What has become of them?
Is he so fickle
To love until the first sharp sweetness fades
Then move on to another flower.
Is that his way?

His words of love have warmed my heart
I have blossomed, a Christmas rose in January snow.
Should I reach towards him open,
Vulnerable?
The softness of my throat, my gift to him
But for his kiss or for his knife?

I trust his good intentions,
Honor his honesty and truth.
I accept his offering of words of love.
But alone at night I wonder in the darkness.
Will I become mere words on a screen,
The flickering memory of another conquest,
Another almost perfect love affair?
Or is this the pure reality we seek?

                               January 13, 1997