All I can commit to paper is your hair,
the sweetness of your flesh and blood;
I would rather capture inner beauty, not stare
at the physical shadow of where you stood.
Yet I am helpless. I only obsess
on your perfect bosom, your catlike moves,
the shadowy form that I long to caress,
but surely your soul is what my soul loved?
Our conversation was delightful, our love as well
and if this fragility of feeling disproved
its reality, nevertheless, it was in love that I fell.
Your absence is something of which I'm all too aware -
yet all I can commit to paper is your hair.