I could ask, woman-child, why

it is you my heart fixates upon.

I could wonder why my glimpses of you

are guilty pleasures and

bemoan that I cannot declare my love,

when a lovely face is reason enough,

and innocent enough, when

love claims others to you.

You’re innocent, face so lovely,

but not as innocent as they say.

Or if you are, then am I truly wrong

to see you and feel

this love I feel for you?

How can loving an innocent

jade her?

But to beg the question

would be to invite

the righteous anger and

sanctified hatred that comes

from loving a one I may not.

So, face so lovely,

secure in her ignorance of my love,

be loved by one more suitable.

Be loved by a man.