Wistfulness
I’m going to throw this paper away!
You will be you, and I will be me.
The wistfulness was looking at the darkness – sad and tear-streaked.
The darkness smiled and saddened. Me.
The wistfulness was watching further, beyond itself, beyond you.
She saw what I couldn’t see.
The wistful figure – always alone, always wrong.
The love of poets, though never true.
She was alive back then, too. Alone, bent halfway, turned back.
Over the shoulder.
She who looks where the knees won’t go. She who waits, yet leaves.
She who wants, but stands still.
She was alive back then, too. We saw her!
We saw her alone, with raised eyebrows.
We saw her alone, bent in half, the wistfulness – with the wistful eyes.
Holding her breath. As well as her gaze.
The one who holds onto for far too long, and lets go far too quickly.
She wrapped herself halfway.
She bent.
Alone, in her wistfulness. Over the shoulder.