Upon this terrace I am found

Upon the rose covered terrace,
The lonely woman sits and stares.
Out across the shingled waves,
She wonders, “Would anybody care?
If I should pass within the graves?

Would anyone’s mind falter,
As they read my name upon the stone.
Would anyone even be there?
Or would they bury me alone?

My landlord might note the missing rent,
My boss that I am late.
But I have no man to miss my hand, at our next dinner date.

The blue bird might miss the pile of seeds I leave upon the morrow,
Some might even hear him sing, a song of hungry sorrow.

The birds may note I’m gone it’s true, yet should I expect the same from you?

You never noticed me before, when I passed you on the lawn.
And when I tried to smile and wave, you quickly carried on.

I’m not sure what I ever saw in you.
Your handsome and charming,
Though I dare say I should find your treatment of me alarming.

I should know that you’re the problem
Yet I feel that I’m to blame.
For if only I were prettier,
There’d be no stopping passion’s flame.

Yet I’m not as pretty as she,
My legs are not as long and fair
My size a bit too round.
I do not have her golden hair,
And so upon this terrace I am found.”