It is three months since you taught me love can be fun
and one since you came to fruit,
breasts weighty and silky.
Now I feel like I seem to you: old, ill-smelling,
a body with whom nothing good can be done.
Untrue, of course. We can join again if
love is more than a noise made in bed.
If not we are both lonely, in pain and afraid
to fruit. Oh trust me. I too can grow.
My fault was, when told the best possible news,
to feel no delight. Allow time.
With time I will show
that when you chose me, you chose right.