I was told
   by a pair of pity-filled stares
   that simmered frantic shock and dared
That I could not have him. I rebelled,
   furrowing mutterings of what is fair
   while hope suspended me in whirling air,
Picturing
    scenes of hush
    and quiet laughs.
Ironic, then,
  how indifference settled into his expression
  and met my joy with sarcastic aggressions.
Ironic, still,
   that I catch myself delving
     not in the sea-bound winds unravelling
     over the coasts of mythical lands,
But in the shape of your hands
on mine.