Shakespeare tells me my love is not my own,
How Time will come and rob me of my love,
That I should steal myself now and be quite done,
So lesser griefs arriving at my door
Will not seem grief at all compared to this:
Knowing the hour will be when no more kissed
By those lips I crave, held by those two hands,
That, both constrain in the throes of pathos,
And send me to orbits wide and cosmic lands.
And so I die to love, and in death find,
That love which alters not, here, all this time.
-jenn long
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