I put you on a pedestal
but was easily distracted.
Was that a Doric column?
Enamoured of my own rhetoric,
I saw you as my inspiration
while ignoring perspiration stains
and pimples. It was simple:
These words came from somewhere
not quite real. If I cared, it was only
for an idea; not even an ideal.
Was it wrong to ogle statues,
to snigger at stone nipples?
With a hammer and a chisel,
I chipped away what was not you.
For that was the conceit of sculpture:
There was less truth in love
than in culture. Anyone could fall
under the thrall of lust, but few
could shape your face into a marble bust.
I raised you as a monument
to our failure to be attracted.
