Hannah, I do not love you,
More than I love the looming shadows of my past
And it is not that I do not love you
I love the darkest corner of my room better:
The one dressed in cobwebs and crumbling plaster
Haunted by ghosts that only make allies
With old, defeated kings.
It is not that I do not love you,
But I cannot greet you,
As a poet must greet the spring:
With the garland of newly sprung verses,
Perfumed with the passion of youth
And thus, I must not love you, at all.