Syrup

I was reading a volume of forgotten lore,
a volume I quite enjoyed.
A mystery and a detective, the author did employ.
But I couldn’t focus on the crime –
and neither could the police,
there was a certain someone on my mind,
someone I could not ignore.
I closed the cover with a hearty clap
and climbed up from my chair,
down the chamber door
and down my house’s stairs.
I grabbed my charging cell phone
and dialed a string of numbers –
a string memory could never impair –
and spoke into the receiver with my heart’s unquiet blair:

“How I’d love to hear your voice,
how I’d love to hear your voice!
There is no sound that I love more –
then your spoken word on my two ears!
Except of course, the sound of my maple syrup simmering.
But your voice itself seems to stream through the speaker,
sounding even sweeter than that sweetest sap could muster.”

I ranted on and on upon his physical attractions,
and then continued to his mental attributions.
I could not stop to think about anything but him,
but when I finished my lover’s tirade,
I turned back to my ageless novel, and the mystery within.
Oh how I wish I could reach for that phone,
just to tell him that I love him,
but yet I can not do it,
and so I continue on alone.

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