All the smug revisionists point it out now;
quick to claim as fallacy a warmth they can’t grasp.
True, our love remained an un-consummated
Mounting me was still an unbridled pleasure:
Please concede as much as that, won’t you? Don’t you?
Unexpected though it is, haven’t stranger
Can’t you see I’m down-trodden? Can you blame me?
You’re the one that broke me, as you’ll recall. You
claimed yourself as Jupiter, though Poseidon
rightfully owned me.
Dozens through antiquity beamed with beauty
marked by features typified as equine-like.
Haven’t I surpassed the attractiveness of
these in my manner?
Flames of lust will dwindle and die, but ours was
plodding love, authentic and true. It’s sure to
last beyond the lesser alliance that a
romance can offer.