I never meant for you to wake up. What I wanted and prayed for was not what I meant to happen. Your friction-warmed surface, your curves my own hands carved and defined, your medium too rich and hard to be worn away in one man’s lifetime—I would never have given all this up, my love, if I’d known the gods were listening. Now in sleep your face has lines I didn’t cut, your yielding skin barely contains your warmth, and you dream. You’re no more a dis appointment than any daughter. Forgive me as I’ ve forgi ven my gods, not because they were innocent, but because it makes mortal life easier to bear.
R. Gatwood is concise.