Paramour

She sits at the black grate table,

Long flowing blonde locks entangled in her right digit,

Twirling absent minded.

 

Across sits her friend the windbag,

Only half interested in what is being said,

Where are her thoughts?

 

I long to be the one that steals her ambitions,

The man of her day and night dreams,

A reminder in everything she sees.

 

I never once heard her voice,

Never even a hello,

Mute not by choice but association.

 

I will never hold her in my arms,

Touch her faint skin,

She is not my paramour.