She’s not the one, for sure.
For she’s a light-squared bishop.
Even with our lives so chequered
In equal dark and light moods,
She gets away just gliding along,
Never stepping through darkness.
And in pretty straight paths too.
Angled just enough for her to claim
She isn’t that conventional.
She wouldn’t get a knight,
Wouldn’t get my mood swings:
Every light patch ensuring
The next one will be dark,
Only to be light again,
Just enough to give a little hope,
Against the looming anxiety
That there will be despair soon.
Some days, I even envy
The Bane of the Dark Bishop.
I have merely adopted the dark.
He is born in it. Moulded by it.
He knows no hope.
So, he knows no despair.
She, though, wouldn’t get my path:
Why I step aside a bit and stop
Every time I manage two steps on.
She’ll say I don’t have the confidence
To stick to the path I start on.
The other day she said playfully
That I was worse than the pawns.
They too have to face the swing,
But at least they stick to their paths,
Working straight and hard
For the promotion at the end.
Or, when they are in a position to,
They capture opportunities passing by,
Asserting they can break the swing.
That’s why I love the days when
A chain of our pawns stand happily,
Caging her in her monotony,
But letting me skip over them.
That’s why I love the French.
And the Dutch when they stonewall.
I only semi-love the Slavs, though.
Anyway, the point is, she isn’t the one.
With privileged, pampered genetics,
With arrogance of a one-third queen,
She wouldn’t get how liberating it is:
For half the joy, I get twice the world.
And the unchallenged self-assurance
That no one else can do what I do.