The past became a foreign place;
love was more abundant there,
with tangled beads, cheesecloth and lace,
and everyone had longer hair.
His was auburn and thick,
and she longed to run her fingers through it.
She watched and waited every day
for him to pass her way
when they were younger –
she remembered that hunger
until it ached inside her.
But their love was thwarted by time,
the years grew mountainous and harder to climb
and he remained a memory
unrequited was all it would ever be.
Kim M. Russell, 12th April 2019
On Day 12, Shay has gone back to the stuff poetry is made of: Love.
She says that poems have been written about every kind of love, and every emotion connected with it, from the giddy beginnings of romantic love, to the ruin and despair of losing love.
Today, Shay would like us to write about love for someone who does not know we love them. The guy at the music store, the gal in the apartment across the hall. That actor on the screen, that character in our novel. We can write about someone we actually know or know of, or we can imagine someone. We could complicate it: maybe they’re married or there’s an age difference, there they are, making our hearts beat faster anyway.