À moi. L'histoire d'une de mes amours.*
He was light.
He was radiant,
     and he was rapt.
He was brilliant,
     and he was blithe.
He was sent,
     and he was sound.
He was bliss, he was my rapture;
     he was my God and my nirvana.

But he was grief.
He was woe,
     and he was worry.
He was mistake,
     and he was malaise.
He was anguish,
     and he was agony.
He was in my very flesh;
     the yellow pulsing tumour of wretched, blinded love.