If only he wrote poems for br her like Byron did those br whom he knew, if only her br br man took time to put pen br to paper, rather than his fist br to her cheek or jaw or pushed br br her to the floor to have his way. br She liked the Byron book, kept br it by her bed or in her bag to br br take out to read to suck the br words to her head. If only her br man had the good grace to br br speak in such a way to make br her feel loved or needed, not br talked to like something on the br br end of his shoe or poked about br till black and blue. Maybe one br day he will changed, she mused, br br maybe he’ll speak to her in finer br tones in lovers’ words in softer br voice in kinder ways, as if some br br inner fire blazed, not bellowed br at or cursed or punched till dazed. br She opened the book and read br br her favourite lines, the words br caressed her, brought her joy br and enlightenment, not like him br br and his dark side, violence, brutality br and punishment. Reading out loud br is difficult when her lips are swollen br br or her bruised eyes are closed by br his vicious rage, then the words br sit silent on the open white page.