To What You Answer

Oh Rosalind! how your presence

Lingers in my mind, the touch

Of your contemptuous skin leaves a mark,

Love of your cold lips which have now

Forsaken me scars what beats within.

Hope, oh sweet hope, that you are

Beatrice, withholding your feelings

For fear and not for absence

Longing as I do, yet careful,

Willing, as I am, and yet more.

Or are you Juliet? Harking for

What you cannot have, the eternal

Damsel, destined to a doom lit just down

The path a ways and approaching.

Pray, oh pray as I pray, you are not

Annabel, as cold and gone as the sea

By which you lie in eternal respite.

Or, perhaps , you are not Rosalind.

You answer not to Beatrice, nor Juliet,

And Annabel is nothing more than an

Obscure reference from a time long gone.

Nay, you are none of these, immortalized

By other men in their hearts and by their pens.

You are something more, immortalized by the

Reverberations in my scoundrel soul

Of your voice, damning my will and whispering

Softly, in my ear: “There is no other but you.”

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