BY ELIZABETH WARD
He’s a ruthless son of a bitch.
No regard for the people around him,
No regard for anyone at all.
All but one.
A woman who holds strong and has honorable tastes,
Like a rose dusted summer sunset;
Inviting him to sleep, to wonder and to dream.
No one else does this for him.
Offers her a drink, gives her a little extra room,
Room so she too can sleep in their tiny little bed.
She makes coos and whispers as she dozes off,
And he wonders how it is that she’s the one to make him feel this way.
Is it the power of a man or the power of love?
Or just the fact he cares alone?
No one knows, except for me, because I love him more than anything.