You are my love

and I yours.

I could speak your names

but to what end?

I write this

not to you

but for you.

Since I am of the hoi polloi

I must speak to them

as you deign not to.

I speak to them of love,

far beyond and yet within

the flesh they celebrate;

our love is so pure,

even within its bawdy lust

full of moans, gasps and dirty sheets.

We are distant in space

yet ever present in time.

There are days, no,

moments within day,

that I wish it was different.

I want to marry you,

but can't.

You do want to marry me,

but will never.

I wish, by far, that I was younger.

I want to be closer.

I wish I was single.

And yet, even like the impossible

time travel to kill your ancestors;

were anything, any trifling thing different,

you and I would not have met,

not have fallen in love,

not have, in a way,

dedicated our lives to one another.

Yes, I do wish it was different

and I know that it could not have been,

or, my love, I would have no one

to write this to or for.

I know you know this

which is why you know who you are.

We shed the same tears apart

and, when together, forget we are not one.

We do, after all, share the same name.

I love you. I just do.