My intention is amatorial;
my writings blend into a gossamer billet-doux.
Your position flickers between adversarial
and a besotted lothario.
I try to convince myself
that I am just a feminine roué,
fire & lightening, predatory & lewd -
yet that is not so. I find myself
retreating from romance;
romance with others feels like debauchery.
My coquetry now feels hollow as a myth,
as Cupid, as broken and aged as a carriage wheel,
years drying me out like layers of mud.
I am no wanton.
Lapidarious stripping of my heart
waits to complete penitence;
it cries to contact you.
My abortive attempts of wooing
cannot slip into the interstices,
cannot slip past your panoply of guilt.
Jan 17, 2008