If only you knew how heartbreakingly beautiful you are,
How you are so many perfect things,
How your touch is honey,
How your absence stings.
Come slowly—Eden Lips unused to Thee— Bashful—sip thy Jessamines As the fainting Bee— Reaching late his flower, Round her chamber hums— Counts his nectars— Enters—and is lost in Balms. Emily Dickinson