Meant to Be

There is a question 

that floats in the epigraph, 

a word that calls me awake, 

a broken forever-after. 

I question all I know, 

the wrenching realisation 

that I can never let you go.  

Duty I am pinned to 

without simple retaliation, 

a need for warmth 

that I satisfy beyond my 

beliefs because that 

is what I am born for.  

An obligation salutation too 

brittle for us 

to voice.  

It is not that love 

is beyond this, 

the question mark picture frame 

in destiny’s hands, 

my yearning for a touch 

or the vein-to-vein combat 

embarked upon under the cloak 

of midnight.  

It is pain, 

Crush, 

tell me too much, 

forget my humble origin 

and take what you must.  

But you are not him: 

light behind a dog’s eyes, 

unkempt and uncaring, 

saying I am not woman, 

days around my hips, 

and dazed at the sight.  

There is a gentle question 

on your lips 

that I seek to dismiss.  

A raised point that 

makes me uncertain.  

There is a question I  

ask myself: 

Am I your protector, your saviour, 

your ghost?