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Writing Blog 3

He Is Not Yours To Love

Roderick Campbell

by Janne Robinson

cello concertos
sometimes the men
who amuse my heart
beating strongly
in the April heat
with sweat
black flies
are not for me to love

I may wonder
marvel even
feel a fire
want to stumble
and ask, “do you feel this too?”
it’s selfish

sometimes we shall never know
never kiss ink
that is blue and green
and would spin
from the ceiling

we will never know the taste of coffee
from crumpled white sheets
brush blonde hair
trace fingertips upon brown skin
speckled from the sun
walk upon rich old wood
to a hammock that hangs
purple, red and orange
as it should
and love deep

instead I shall look
from afar
and tell
the curiosity
and again
forget it
he is not yours to love
he is loved well

perhaps we once loved each other richly
1000 years ago
perhaps he is here
to remind my fickle heart
what his blue eyes look like
so when he shows up
in 200 years
my heart may know
what she knows now
without biting her tongue.