How Much I Would

How much I would to thee of other write,
And feign that what hath come, so must have been,
No more than sequence borne of nature’s rite,
That led us where we sought, ere time was seen.

How much I would thou couldst but hear me now,
Without thy judgement, or the later mind,
Without the doubt that brands my solemn vow,
As once thou didst, and I, in turn, so blind,

We both were lost in what we knew, yet new,
A life we craved, and yet had not begun.
How much again I’d waste whole months in lieu
To chase thine answers left in jest and runs

Dispers’d through rooms as if by happenstance,
When home was but a form we yet must learn,
Another shape wherein to cast our dance,
And run through corridors with turns that burn’d.

This house now beareth marks of what we broke,
Of where we ran and could not make the bend,
Of where we struck the frame, the wall, the yoke,
Or fell and could not feign it was pretend.

This house, like us, hath wept in silent tide.
Or like to me. I ne’er did see thee cry.
And mayhap that is what did most abide,
And made me think how oft I would, and why

That thou might still remain, despite the sore,
A splintered ghost within the words “ne’er more”.