So, we are done. You hinted - I said no,
although my verses talk of might have been.
The things a cold observer would have seen
amount to little. You are free to go.
I wish you joy with him. I really do.
He's trim and buff and loves you. All I'll say
Is, read my sonnets on some rainy day
years hence, and smile or weep. As to what's true
there's pose, pretense and sorrow, rhetoric
rueful self-mockery. You're a coquette
whose lips and teeth and eyes I'll not forget
as they fixed on me. And I learned the trick
of verse that flirts straight back. Love him – be good
You know I would have loved you if I could.