Her hypothetical

She keeps the scenario to herself,
and whiles away at it sometimes.
Although she knows everything she'd do,
it never gets anywhere she likes -

since the other one in the scenario
is a statue, or might as well be. Stone,

or bronze or wood - the substance may change,
the composure remains: immovably prone.

She can't even picture him come to life,
though she know he's alive as he can be.
She can't even picture just what he'd do,
she cannot presume to decide, you see.

She's decided her hypothetical
for herself, every myriad branching way
every possible future, splitting off -

but he lies like a statue of ash and clay.
So she can't take his hand,
and run down those paths.
She can't breathe her life into him, or kiss
the spell away, and free his will -
as the branches fall,
like a burning wish,

from what's possible.