Mine was the thrill,
Hers, the woman’s will
Allowing me to love.
I would rather see beauty
Than be beauty.
To see her in the moonlight.
To kiss her. It seemed easy to get right.
All we had to do was visit.
Or was it right? Did the moon begin the night
Or did the night begin the moon?
I said, “let’s do this again soon!”
Was her reluctance, feigned, or no?
She was the woman, and I,
Denied in life, as men will be,
Connected her with getting what I wanted.
Kindly she loved me—the undaunted.
Her reluctance convinced me that I
Convinced her; made me strong, devilishly,
And understanding this
She withheld her kiss
To increase my thrill—
Done lovingly but surely by her will.
I was the infant, pleased
Because she teased—
And once this was understood
Nothing love did was any good.
Love devolved into a power play
And gradually she took all I loved away.
Her reluctance became more and more real.
She had to think. I had to feel.
Because her thought grew bold
Her love became cold.
“Let’s go to that spot again,” I said,
Dreaming of her moonlit
Face—but love was already dead.