Every lover's lament has an element of boasting.
Lovers remain in the dark, working hard to keep out daylight.
As I review my life, I feel I must have missed the point, either then or now.
Truth-telling frightens me. Lying confuses me.
Loving, not the beloved, is the joy of love. The beloved, knowing this, most resolutely declines to be grateful.
Always late: thus I make you the prisoner of my freedom.