To begin with, you were never mine.
Because I am entirely, tirelessly yours.
That was the reality that eluded me,
momentarily. I picked myself up in the
darkness, persevering half a lifetime ’til
the day when I might be found worthy
of you, to share a portion of your destiny
with you, to demonstrate to you the love
that I had so long cherished for you alone.
But you were never mine to begin with;
I may have been yours, may be yours,
so caught up in you, and so in love; but
you were your own, are your own, never
giving more than you get. Responding;
never initiating. Leading, while I follow.
Despite and still, the only emptiness
I know is the void of the absence of you
beside me. Despite and still, you remain
all that I have ever sought; yours from
the very beginning. Yours, ’til the end.
Yes, you have me now, as you have always
had me. Your poet. In dreams more real
than mere corporeality, divine succubus,
my only muse, your visitations transforming
need into fulfilment, want into ecstasy,
distance into proximity. No honey without
a sting. No rose without its thorn. Angel,
I beseech, leave me only when I smile.