You have offered yourself a dozen times,
but it’s only self-control that I prize.
Mine, not yours. I understand you. Sometimes
I can understand mine too. I despise
what I’ve become. I long for green sunshine
in the oaks. Shadows of leaves that crisscross
across the wondrous curve of your spine
as you lay spread out on your bed of moss.
All that is gone. Out from the blackness pins
point to light, become shafts we’ll devour
together. I miss finding brand new sins
that we would deny ourselves. I miss our
summer days in the grass when we would play
at love-sick Beatrice and sly Dante.