Relationship

This love older than I by myriad Saddened centuries was once a prayer In his bones that made them grow in years of Adolescence to this favored height; yes, It was my desire that made him male And beautiful, so that when at last we Met, to believe that once I knew not his Form, his quiet touch, or the blind kindness Of his lips was hard indeed. Betray me? Yes, he can, but never physically Only with words that curl their limbs at Touch of air and die with metallic sighs. Why care I for their quick sterile sting, while My body's wisdom tells and tells again That I shall find my rest, my sleep, my peace And even death nowhere else but here in My betrayer's arms...