You have mine.
I give it freely. Take her
in your arms and love her as I couldn’t. Put your ring on her.
Claim her. Own her. Make her yours as I couldn’t.
Brand her. Mark her.
Stain her in a way that changes her. I could never and never will. Perhaps you love her
more than I. Perhaps that is what love is, to make a mark,
to leave a way of telling, showing, having.
Instead, I will love her in my way, in my own way,
far from her,
imperfectly, as I am.
As she is.