You touch my hair, my cheek, my hand, and yet
Touch not my heart. Though you are with me here,
Still I am lonely. I cannot forget
My longing for another, far more dear—
And suddenly the teardrops rim my eyes,
But I resist them. Do not ask me, then,
What I am thinking; should you realize,
The ache I feel would match itself again
In you, but of a sharper, bitter kind.
My purpose is to soothe, not pain you worse,
So I bear mine alone. I do not mind;
I pity you, to think that loving hurts.
For I am fortunate, that I know this:
Love when fulfilled, as I love him, is bliss.
September 27, 1987