Lost for the Memory.


For eight months
we danced the tortured course
of indecision and loneliness,
finding in each other's eyes
such promises and tenderness
but never daring to break the silence
that we may find our path mistaken.

Such fragile history,
how I long to see you,
if only to touch your sight again
and feel your smile
one last time.
I shall miss your voice,
and countenance.

I have been a fool's delight,
never daring to tell you
my heart's deep longing, lest
you find it repulsive, or disturbing.
My deathly seriousness has
killed all that may have been
between us.

I am not of frivolous blood,
as I ought to be.
My jests of conscience are old
and simple, dwelling too long
in the space of too many thoughts.
I condemn myself before the act,
as both rash and weak.

O Gaylia, I pray someday
you may find me a worthy friend,
someone to bring you unhalting joy
or confidence.
I have never treated you well,
and doubtless deserve your scorn.
But consider me a child,
clumsy at the boundary of the heart,
and know I loved you
as much as one can, who has not
the sense nor acquaintance, to
bring it voice.