The Aquamarine

The tears roll down the hill in a stream of aquamarine 

It's the season of love but my love remains unseen 

I weep for the touch of a whisper of sweet nothings

I see my trembling hands, the naked hands with no rings 

I long for the embrace, the shoulder with my nestled head 

I long for the "I do" I never heard nor said 

I see the shooting star and I wish for the desired filled eyes 

I feel the moonlight on my skin as I shed my indifferent guise 

I wait for the hand that'll grasp mine at will, under the cloud proud and loud 

The cloud of sunshine, of not the pitiful rain that my estate has now shroud 

I hear the crunch of leaves under two bodies marching in unison 

My sorrow however only finds me, walking in my free prison as one 

And so on every Limerick I look for a smile of genuine joy and glee 

But the polite acknowledgements of formal civility is all I ever see 

And so every night the tears well up as they start in a muted rill

The aquamarine keeps rolling down, down along the hill

-VM