And your lips fall on vowels with such delicacy
As I try not to drown in this perilous sea,
With eyelids which rub raw and a heart like a drum
I'm not the one in your head; on the tip of your tongue,
So, try as I might, there's nothing to be said
There's no use in this fight: leave this poem for dead,
Skin still speckled with love-coloured bruises, I know
Though I shift in my seat, I would much rather go,
Loutish lover, with these words, I bid you adieu
This is the last sonnet I shall write for you.