Golden dish eyes,

Her longing for him,

The same hands that once played

With a ball of string;

Childishly, perhaps, she waits,

With certain heartbeats odd;

Cupid’s bow arched,

She makes kisses at air.

“Not him,” she cries,

“Not him”. Silver teardrops,

So rare to be seen

Past that old stooped girl

That rests, central in her face.

Pinafore dress,

Like a ‘jumper’ they said,

Clings to her hips

As it did as a child;

Still, not unchanged,

She is far more than that,

But there she remains,

Held in wait for that man.

Amber agony,

A light in her mind,

Held away from the flame,

Passions, or mental relief;

If the thought is not passed,

Then the silence is full,

But her cries withheld,

Hide from sympathy.

Those lips touch again,

Abstract, but “not him”:

Fresh from the carton,

Apple juice.

The End

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