Love poem read by lamplight.

Image by Ed 

The stars are the street lights of eternity. ~Author Unknown

My bed side lamp is crying. She threatens to leave me in the dark. I caress her curved spine gently with my hand. She tilts her head away casting the love poems in shadow. She hates love poetry: 'love is foreign' she says. It's wicked, I plead with her, not to shine your self upon the love poetry. The world is only bone and tombstone. Her filament trembles: Sentimentality is a funeral parlour, she hisses. You love poetry, but you don't know how to love me, you bed lying book possessed fool.

Stunned to hear these words, mouth O shaped, I speak to console. Then, without warning, she jumps from the bed side table, cable and plug trailing behind her, bursting the bright 40 watt bulb of her self, face first upon the wooden floor, shattering into smithereens. I lunge out of bed, startled, dropping the book of love poems upon her thin twisted body; I stand upon the hot pieces of glass in the darkness, wince as they slice into the soles of my feet. I fall to my knees sobbing; raise my hands to my face in mourning, then grope blindly in the dark gathering the broken bits and pieces.