It
is three months since you taught me love can be fun
and one since you came
to fruit, breasts weighty and silky.
Now I feel like I seem to you: old, ill-smelling,
a body with whom nothing good can be done. Untrue,
of course. We can join again if
love is more than a noise made in bed.
If
not we are both lonely, in pain and afraid
to fruit. Oh trust me. I too can
grow. My
fault was, when told the best possible news,
to feel no delight. Allow time.
With
time I will show
that when you chose me, you chose right. |