blues and grey areas

I tell myself don't write
letters I can not send.
She's not in the market
for servants or slaves.
I don't even know what
she might want in a friend.
It would take alchemy
to make something of this
that will never be.
So I have to help
my hapless heart behave.
I have no place to speculate:
One can't caress treasure
encased in glass.
So my emotions must be
stillborn and sedate.
Yet the soul will be quenched,
I believe, by and by,
even when rain
that falls from the sky
is swallowed by the soil
while the lips remain dry.


[who is reading? please feel feel to comment constructively.]