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,
The 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.
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