She closes her eyes because that’s when he’ll come.
He writes the songs that make her feel young.
She holds his hand while he whispers the words,
that he sings on stage for others, not her.
But she doesn’t care, right now in this dream,
he’s looking at her and she’s starting to scheme.
With a toy in her hand and the other clenched tight
She imagines him with her all through the night.
Gasps and moans fill her room.
She hears his voice and is fully consumed.
Several times she continues to grasp at thin straws
Of images dancing behind lids now drawn.
He comes to her, the toy now in deep.
As her dreams continue to help her not weep.
She can not have him. He’s for the crowd.
But here in her bedroom, she’s riding a cloud.
The thoughts take her higher and further she goes,
until she can feel a fiery glow.
Now as she sighs, release over and done,
his voice is a whisper that brings her no fun.
With her open eyes she looks at her room
And sees she’s alone, her toy is her tomb.
She covers her body, glistening with sweat.
Her tears fall; her cheeks now are wet.
One day she will meet a bright shining star.
She’ll not see others, for he’ll be glowing by far.
He won’t be a hero, or a singer of verse.
He’ll just be a man that lifts the sad curse,
of dreams she can’t have and schemes she can’t play.
In the end she’ll be happier on her wedding day.