Sweet

I hoped it was my prowess in our bed
That made you love me, but I don’t suppose
My kisses made you swoon. Several of those
Would leave me gasping, but my turning red
Proved nothing: I turned red alone. Instead,
I thought perhaps my wit was what you chose,
So I produced a hailstorm of bon mots,
Enough to make you frown and smack my head.

Loving you, I had won the lottery,
A run of luck so thorough and intense
That nothing comparable to that recompense
Was ever met with such futility:
What had to be the reason you loved me
Was your sweet pity for my lack of sense.