The eve of my desire
drew long before the barren dawn.
The moon was sharp and ripe,
as if pregnant with hope - yet not.

Its face, while full, was empty then
as joy sank from my heart, denied.
So, mocking, this great irony -
a night so darkly lit by loss.

That gentle brush against some faint
mercurial glimpse of some bright lust
had soon grown cold, a vapor just -
and now remains a bitter warmth.

A sweet pain tortures at my heart,
as thoughts of that which could have been
still taunt and tempt me to indulge
that they may yet be realized hence.

And now is the perpetual day,
that stretches out beyond refrain -
is dry, nothing quenches that pain
of love kept so close from my reach. 
	
No nights will once more come to claim
the light of day that swallows rest -
that keeps my heart from laying down
the hope of winning that great gift.

The wait is long and merciless,
as I, unsated, must endure
in patient poise, kept open still
so that I'm primed when if it comes.

If it comes, that welcome night
to give my weary heart relief,
to mend the wound of hope withheld,
and hold me then in its embrace.

That hope withdrawn that wakened morn,
be then restored that I may sleep
within the light of this new night,
the eve of my desire.