The Furtive Denial

The Furtive Denial

I was born to parents, not friends,
About twenty years ago,
And their love and affection
Has not taken a toll on discipline.

To be in love is a wife’s privilege
I have learnt untold each day.
To love unwed is the Forbidden Apple –
Alluring snakes kept at bay with care.

To such a girl as I, you profess
A love unbound by reason!
I know well my feelings for you
And it certainly is not love.

I must confess I have, fleetingly,
Thought of you in the afternoons –
Must be due to the boring books I read
Or the tranquilizing twitters of birds.

Oh, what a shame it was,
To be discovered like that –
Staring agape at a window
Half-hoping for an intrusion.

But this is by far an intrusion worse
That disturbs the calm of my heart
I know well my feelings for you
And it certainly is not love.

It is true I can recognize your voice
Even in a sea of throats
And having cursed a once or twice
I hoped you did not hear.

Your name it rings slightly different
From a million others that I hear,
And the face in the mirror gets prettier still
Even as it becomes more of a stranger.

However unchurned your thoughts might be
Mine are sturdy still.
I know well my feelings for you
And it certainly is not love.

Now that you have confessed
So unabashedly to your fondness
All books have words you used
And birds they chime your name.

Though my heart seemed in tandem with
My mind in spurring your proposition
The former often skips a beat, while the latter
Is struck with a strange sense of defeat.

Love is such a mystery!
I wonder how it will unravel!
But I know well my feelings for you
And it certainly is not love.