The moon faces you like a spotlight.
You’re on the stage of your balcony
missing the admiration of Romeo.
You take in the unmusic of the traffic;
all the beep-beeps in the moonlit air,
silly; the lot of them, the lack of him.
If you could blush again on this balcony!
Or run indoors to fetch – anything-
If only paper plane messages from him
or if feelings pressed to petals
were handed to you through the railings.
You ask yourself why not, wherefore not,
and all those waiting questions,
with negatives like nails,
pinned to your throat.
Then, in your best Juliet voice,
you leave a message after the tone:
Dost thou love me? I know thou wilt say ‘Ay’
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