If I could be with the man that loves,
the first one;
to transverse time and space
back to his place,
back to the century of delicate gowns,
and intricate plays.

Oh, Will
in your honey words
and echoing tavers,
you wrote for me
the very meaning of love;
love itself was inspired by you, all made
from your beautiful tale
of Ro and Ju.

In your time,
scandalous was all but bare feet,
and the highest importance
was tied with greedy leagues.
In my time,
a man like you could be adored,
captured,
debt pid in full by a reading or love note.

But this lover of words remains dead,
and I still myself in the present.
So,
it seems,
gentle love words
shan't be mine to receive.