That was not an intrigue.
You were on the palm of my hand,
Like a wonderful book
In a hard supercover.

I was in love like a boy,
With a quiet secret tremor,
As I read our novel
With indecent title.

There were tears and threats,
The same ones over and over,
There was a lot of prose,
And very few poems.

Your stormy affections
And other remaining means -
It’s awful like in a fairy tale
Of an early childhood.

I was hoping secretly
That no one would read you,
But like from the library
Too many people took you.

 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 

I can’t wait for the moment
When even with delay,
I will return the book
With indecent title.