On Being Vane

Somewhere between a flower and a coffin
lies the colorless sunrise outside your windows.
I am devoted and still breathing like the Elin.
You are innocent and still sleeping like the Pothos.
I hold my gaze on your lipstick-stained glass from before.
The tint of your pursed lips is our version of Gray’s portrait.
I have you only until the birds sing from behind the door;
you are not yet cruel, and I am not dead yet.
I have you only until you roam your beloved Lord’s garden.
Tell me who you love today; I will be any woman with ease.
Your face is still so soft, but why must your heart harden?
Tell me who you love tonight; I can be any woman you please.
     When I woke with you, I began to see the world’s beauty.
     I am still living; you are still pure; I wish for you to love me.