I said so oft and oft: a man will not 

Place himself ‘tween I and mine, and that I 

Say again, to no avail. That I ought, 

That I should say again, but still he has my 

Mind wrapped ‘round his, with this ghost

Of touch. He no longer knows me: the poem

Should end here. Yet it beats on, against a coast

Of cracking cobwebs; angrily, I swim 

And push this feeble, indulgent body.

I hate this. I hate these words, and I ground

Them out past unwilling teeth, a shoddy

Attempt not to come unbound. 

If I could remove this blight, my love, I

Would. You would hear nothing but a sigh.