Do I fancy myself as more of a Marvell

when I watch her delicate hands search

for the rubies in her mind’s Ganges?

Or am I more of a Herrick, as I clearly envision

her smile blossoming before me and withering

in the absence of my oh-so-seductive presence?

Surely I must be a Housman;

does my heart sadden to think of the cherries still

desperately clinging onto the boughs of my beloved’s body?

I’m not any of these, am I? No, I’m not.

I’m more akin to J. Alfred Prufrock,

fearful of the oppressive time being spent and my fading looks.

Though no one knows, my muse is coy and discrete, a true siren of time.

Tick-tock, tick-tock, the young girl afraid of the clock is me.

Do I ever see the women come and go, talking of Michelangelo? No.

But all the while, I drown in my own incompetence,

suffocate in my solitude, afraid of my own carnal desires.

I’ve lost my chance for now to “seize the day”.

But hey, there’s always tomorrow.



This is just a drabble of my sexuality and the difficulties of expressing it.

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