If I had known, I would have told her:

It's not you that makes me

proffer this fantastic ode, ringing

with praise so high it is false on its face,

steeped in ludicrous superlatives. You are

a mortal, a very good one, but I want

some sort of god, and I will build you

from bone and flesh into a living idol

if only you will let me. Your first impulse

was correct, as is normal: Go.

Go wherever chance may take you

as long as you vector straight away from

my inconsolable self, as I bleed salt tears

for a missing omnibenevolence

which I seem to think is somewhere

just beyond my ken. I cower

at rejection, but there is nothing

in this for you. In a couple years

you'll like me better. If you know me at all.

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