Don Juan

Cloaked in bitterness brought on by a surfeit
Of desire, he made love out of contempt

Of self.

Enraptured only with the romance of the pursuit,
His  lust would cut through the pretentions of love

To wound

The woman who would soon come to despise them both;
The Prize, with her severed pride dripping its blood

Of tears.

Content to be with her tonight, though.  Aroused
By the perfumed warmth of her body, her breasts,

Her touch,

He almost came close to telling her that he loved her.

Almost.