A Lament for Anne

I am thirty-two
and still wanting to be you.
You aren’t the same you
I desired at twenty
or twelve,
but you. The point is,
not me; not she.
To thine own idols be true.
I crawl to the comfort
of your stylish shoe
and savor its leathery
essence of you.
I run to the mirror
that depicts us as blue
and I never see you.
Give me a hand
from your far-off ferry
that faithfully carried
you there. I swear.
We talked in the pub
and I out-joked your smile,
but you were still you
by a mile.
And what’s a woman to do?

(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006