Rosemary

I'll tell you why I love her;
I'm impressionable with searching eyes
For someone to mold myself into. 
Someone like her, who meets my gaze,
She's the right shade of authentic
For me to take and forge. 

So, am I a poet now?
I have my muse 
And I have my words
And a hundred swarming birds of thought
Shedding feathers and taking flight
In the space behind my eyes. 

I'll tell you- if I were a bird
Then she would be my southern breeze
Filling my wings with her tangible freedom 
Guiding me to where I'm meant to be
A promiseland, with milk and honey
And longer days
And brighter nights. 

I'm waiting for it to fall through,
For the wind to drop
For her gaze to change
For her to recoil as she realises
That it became too much. That I can't let go.
That I've nailed her to my mantle as an iconoclastic love
I fear it and I covet it, too. 

There's a heat in the anticipation, and the hoping for a different truth.