but she’s living, in fear, of what happens
next, when, from isolation, i arrive,
and, like a rooster to a flock of hens,
i tell her i’ve never been more alive.
she knows this goes as long as it lasts,
and, i think, she’s worried about me,
since a spell, on me, is what she casts,
determined, as she is, to be free.
I don’t mind the realm from which i come;
besides, she, for me, has changed the most,
so, if she leaves, i remain a tidy sum,
and another, in time, will play the host.
She needn’t fret, then, about her condition:
her part, as sorceress, is fair enough.
there is no need, therefore, for contrition,
since i connect, through her, to the present.
No future siren can strip me away;
besot, do tell, by the Christian i realize—
her departure is a small price to pay,
drawn in, as she is, by what I apprise,
atoning, as she does, for what’s remiss,
leaving me with a moment of sentiment,
to think that the good is what we kiss,
affirming what, i see, the good Lord meant.
so don’t blame it on me if i go hungry she’s worried, now, that she’ll never fall out of love with me; but, i remind her, she changed more for me than i changed for her—something, indeed, that, in most cases, can only last so long.
“you’ll be happier, then, when you repair with Him,” atoning, with another, for your sins. but what sin is this? to love me best? i set my pride aside, for i know the life that makes me happiest:
going, with another, until they long for a simpler man. do i resist, then, this complexity? Why should i? Better, yet, when i’m true to myself, and a future that never ceases to amaze me—underscored by the good, that others, through me, embrace—learning, like me, to be true to themselves.