She
by Millie Tolmie
Carelessly sheltering under her mellow glance,
I dare to whisper under the soft willow branches, “it’s you, my love.”
Her eyes wander, following the shifting skyline as the swallows seethe and sow amongst the dissipating clouds.
“It couldn’t be,” she murmurs. “It can’t be.”
I watch her gaze become less and less sincere,
and her lips become more and more desirable.
“But it is. It’s you. It’s always been you.”
Scrambling for her hand, I discover the vacancy
that has replaced her comforting scent.
She lingers in the wind, beckoning me into submission;
but I can’t. And I won’t.
She isn’t mine, nor am I hers.
We aren’t one another’s -
yet our thoughts intertwine amongst leafy debris of the forest we once explored,
and your touch is still embedded within the creases of my broken skin.
Yet despite
the nurture and passion
that encapsulates our
love without discretion,
our separation is written about in books as if it were fate,
and our love is seen as if it were blind.
I cannot be hers,
and
she cannot be mine.
She.