I Must Admit

That I did not really know you,

I thought I did,

I swore I did.

I thought it was enough

that I had explored every expanse,

every crevasse,

and committed to memory all detail

of your skin,

ah,

had I known that your heart remained

Louisiana

before Lewis and Clark;

you let me see you as you wanted

and maybe

as I wanted too,

and you pulled my strings

Geppetto,

so convinced was I that I knew, 

eyes blind to my nose as it grew.

Perhaps if I had known

the stories

begging to be told in the alluring glint

and azure tint

of your eyes;

I feared love's death so much

that I shunned curiosity

and her wicked cat,

thinking that I knew you more than you,

nay,

more than me;

that your shadow manifested as we slept

and snaked her slender form over me

whispering adulterous secrets,

but love was a deep and soothing sleep

from which I refused to wake.

Even as I became Prometheus

and you feasted on me tortuously

with lips painted red,

I still thought I knew you,

eagle.

Should I blame you for using me,

or me for thinking I could not be

used?

Alas, I must admit 

I don't know that either.