Such a luxury meant so little to him then.
He hardly spoke. That made it something less.
But the memory of it has infected him
like a common strain of Venus's bitter curse
for which there is no cure. At odd hours
he feels the old malaise, as subtle
as a bleb set in red, which quickly heals
and leaves no scar, over for a while,
yet always there inside him, marking time.
Too soon a florid qualm becomes defined,
and he must turn away from you again,
but how can he sleep when all that's on his mind
is how the casual freedom need forgave
has marred the perfect body of your love?
