Enigmatic Intimation

Oh, God; what ever’s a girl to do?

When inside, her heart sings

at the sight, at the sound, at the thought of her

true love whose love she owns not,

no matter how much she may want to.

What luck has Fate left her, when her target sees

merely friendship, and never the images

forced into mind by subconscious impulses

that shake the foundation of what she believes?

To her mind’s eye, a perfect reality holds

a girl (perhaps woman) not over sixteen who is

bold and is caring and who loves with great passion,

although she is shy, and dear God how I wish to make

fantasy real by-the-by; not a dream

where I touch her soft cheek and tears stream from her eyes

that we may be together at last without need for pretense

and with no compromise as my lips caress hers, my fingertips light

on her skin. Her breath would then hitch,

her eyebrows would crease, her flushed face encouraging

me into sin that is way past repentance, but nothing could stop me

devouring her innocence, my own coming not so long after.

How much more I can take, I do wonder, when

every morning I wake from a dream of her held in my arms;

her hands have me tight in her grasp, and all I can manage to do

is gasp out all my thanks, for ever having met her—

my most precious person, who now makes me wonder:

What ever’s a girl to do?