The Lover

You are the mess around this fragile glass The one I choose because there is no other And as I lie shattered on glorious grass I can only envision you, the lover

You are my lens when it freezes in time The one I cannot see without a smirk I know our horror, I have searched its clime: The you that holds me with our ever dirt

You are the reason for this burnt skin I lie, but the torturous sun pushes I endure: I love the filth of your sin It is the better part of your bruises.

The pieces of me and their reflections too Are swept away by others; never you.

Sonnet No. 7