In The Morning of His Soul

We were young and innocent then,
Young as the morning, young as the sea,
And we loved as befits the love of young men,
And he had not yet turned away from me.

I remember him running, the wind in his hair,
To fling himself down beside me, with a laugh,
His face shining, almost unimaginably fair,
His body aglitter with dust from the path.

It was after such a run that I confessed to him:
Confessed how he made my heart pound and ache,
How every turn of his head, every flash of limb
Made my heart both want to cry in joy and break.

He seemed bewildered, but then in deep green
Eyes came a faint light that built into a gleam.
He leaned forward, and his hands awoke, unseen
By others, me into real life from my dream.

For I felt that I had been dreaming until I met
Someone who really loved life, not watched it go by,
And he was not someone whom time could fret;
He was someone who watched grudges, and asked why

Anyone would ever be jealous, pressing to me,
His eyes and body athrum with both love and lust.
I told him that that I, at least, was not prepared to be,
And he smiled, and said that he would keep my trust.

The light is fading, and the night is gliding forward.
Surely I am allowed, for this time, to remember
How he of my heart and laughter so long ago was lord?
Am I really required to give up this last ember?

To remember him-and not the way my lord is now,
Cast down upon me, bleeding such that he cannot control
His trembling gasps. He chose to the wrong side to bow.
But I can remember him in the morning of his soul.