Every little thing he is
and I cannot be for anything more
than every little thing he is to me.

I cannot let go, no.
No, I insist I am lacing within
a velvet-kissed bliss.

This bliss had before come to me
only a dream,
so frightening and foreign.

But it's here now, and now, and always.
And before he existed himself and all his absoluteness.
And I and me
and a decree, quite deadly

Deadly to some pearly body.
A shell manifested by some bad habit.
Some habit, and something starving won't ****.
God, the vanity of this woman.