She, a poem


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,


she cannot be mine.


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