She is the moonlit balcony,
she is his Juliet,
she is the embodied Word,
his golden summer stirred
among the river’s trees.
She loves him – how could she not?
He’s always there for her
when she’s lonely and distraught.
He’d do anything for her.
Yet she thinks of the other one
for whom she’s no Juliet,
for whom she’s no summer sun,
aloof excellence that makes her wet.
She loves her gentle friend;
she’s in love with the one who lives
worlds away, and the pain he gives.
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