I could stand,
leaning against the cold concrete,
and tell you of her beauty.
I could hold on
to the railings where we stood,
and describe the brilliance of her eyes.
I could sit down
at the very spot our arms and hands intertwined,
and depict in detail, the taste of her lips.
But such is sacrilege,
and though, as Thisbe, finding Pyramus, blooded, in the woods,
so will I find her eyes, wounded, and coldly staring,
still will I not profane my lips with desecration of that holy night.