it feels like you are Persephone,

always refusing my offers of food and wine,

suspicious

distant

playing by some other rules.

Myself, I am a

plain-spoken man.

I mean what I say

and offer only

what I mean to freely give.

 

You are a mystery to me.

I see your longing

and yet

you say no.

 

I want to say,

What harm will come?

 

I want to say,

if not twelve then six,

if not six

at least a tropical three,

a little respite

from your Puritan jaw.

 

But who am I

to know better?

Who am I

to name the glint and shimmer

in your eye?