My love gets nervous when I compare.
I love her here. But what of that one over there?
Does comparison have anything to do with love?
I hid during the Red Scare.
In my heart I hoped: what if she cares?
And then, with dread: what if she compares?
It always happens, that five women you adore,
Contact you at once, because you remembered four
And the fifth, the one who made you write,
Was also one who loved you in her sight,
Even if it was on the Internet
Where love compares politics and affections yet.
I list each attribute, as I see each attribute,
Each silver thought plays on a golden flute
The song that wants to be the best,
As I kiss in the shadows this one, and forget the rest.
When the plague closes the restaurant
I realize, finally, what I really want.
I miss the waiter’s slavery.
I am not nice when I think of you and I.
I want to adore you in a place
Where the ones I want can see your face.
Whose fault that love is sick, and love compares?
The third one loved; but I think the fourth one really cares.