Tres

There's something wrong in leaving thisaway.
Not by bus; the mode is not the trouble,
But in the fact that though I want to stay
Necessity can pierce desire's bubble
And force me from my love. It should not be
That I should be bereft of her by fate,
Sent far from her so inexorably
Into a distant land, a further state.
Rather the fates should be conspirators
And bring us back together for our good
In some destinal triumph. At our cores
We all hope for that, and I wish it would
Come true for us. But no, I must be here
Busing away from her that I hold dear.