[Image by Natalia Drepina]
Back of hand upon grass, green against white;
in her palm a bloom, plucked from wild – a sign
of her freedom, quashed when she’d moved in; wine
not enough to dull ache of her loss. Kite
without a breeze she felt now. That she might
have turned away, not played the game… But dine
she did with him, time and time again, line
drawn underneath the relationship. Night
unending awaited her after this:
his kisses, his bliss. Not hers, never hers.
She missed the daylight, hope of better (list
was endless of what she’d lost). Heavy mist
on the soul this lot. Palm closes, her nerves
calm, as the bloom crumbles: no hope, no harm.
[Copyright © N R Nolan 2016]