Verse 99
Titania, I measured your absence in Uranian seasons and became old before reaching spring.
Titania, I measured your absence in Uranian seasons and became old before reaching spring.
You told me not to measure love. I was young and owned instruments.
Oberon crossed the dark between us like a king who had forgotten whether he was rival or witness.
Ariel carried my first letter and returned after I no longer agreed with the man who wrote it.
This is the cruelty of distance: messages preserve selves that time has already dismissed.
I asked Uranus to keep you. Planets are terrible custodians of promises.
Its pole turned toward darkness and stayed there longer than some civilizations remain fashionable.
I learned patience, then resentment, then patience without pride.
Once a cat slept on my unsent letter. I took this as an omen because loneliness lowers evidentiary standards.
The cat woke and tore the corner off.
I sent the damaged letter.
You replied: At last, something honest happened to your poetry.
I loved you again for seven minutes and hated you for three years.
Now the season changes.
I no longer ask whether you are returning. I ask whether I am.