It Is You She Cannot Have

You. Sensitive and romantic woman wants only you.
She agonizes with desire, daydreams half a day away of you. You making love to her on a distant, warm ocean bay. You. Where are you?
So unsuspecting and preoccupied.

Why not more of you can’t there be for her?
As alone she is often left when others tug on you.
Part by part they section you, dividing you up too thin till you greet her in the morning and be gone yet again.

Loathsome are bells on phones and doors and morning alarms.
The office dictates and later there’s toddler’s cries and teenager’s trials,submerging and unraveling you. Too many who claim you.
So hence you go – big hasty steps toward waiting demands, pressures.
Farewell affections sometimes missing, often a blur, spurring more dreams.

Your mind. Has it forfeited images of caressing, of loving, of knowing her?
Her mind. Drifts off to embraces, more lovemaking in secluded places,opening a treasure chest of you, all pricless pieces – once held only by her.

Why is it you she cannot have. Outer complexities cement their dividers.
They sever, crumble, and squelch any love that attempts to wander.
But what of depth of love, endurance of love, a love so determined.
Those unknowing of six years of stresses, harried times, struggles would be so stunned at love’s survival. It is only you she should have.
But when?