I have not loved you without patience.
But perhaps I did not love you
more than I loved my honor, my morals.
I did not love so distractedly
that I forgot myself. I did not let go
and lose myself in passion,
not in yours, nor mine.
Perhaps, though I loved you
through more turning moons,
spinning suns, and revolving earths,
though I loved you through more
fresh snowfalls, windswept leaves, summer storms,
and early crocuses than I care to count,
perhaps I kept my fires banked
for fear that we might burn,
perhaps I never loved you
as much as you deserved.