Sonnet VII: Confessions in Our Waking Hours
When we were young, I’d kiss thy slender neck
and whisper secret words of love to thee,
so sure that thou were still not yet awake,
confessing that I longed to lovers be.
But in our waking hours, I’d nothing say—
for fear had mastered both our fragile hearts
and even while we would together lay,
I feared impolitic word might bid us part;
thus I confessed my love between thy thighs
with sweet roughness, with every purple bruise
I marked thee with—for passion rough supplied
confessions writ in all thy flesh abused—
And though our love is now with vows enshrined,
I crave to still confess that I am thine.
