Black Inkstain on a White Dress

Take me back to a time
when the loss of innocence
was a black ink stain
on a white dress.

And a tortured soul
kept an etching
of the woman he loved
hidden from the world

All the while, watching her
from a distance
waiting for the agonizing
climactic bliss
when their eyes would meet,
across a room
suffocating with a rehearsed dance
as women turned and men bowed
in this structured courtship.

But these two
they stood -
shadows on the sidelines
meeting amidst violin concertos
where he would stand behind her
and breathe in the scent
that tormented him.

Then throw himself at her feet
beseeching her
to trace out the lines
of infidelity
on her heart.

beseeching her to love him
and she does

but faithfulness does not collapse
in the face of reckless abandonment

marital complacency
does not give way to moonlit love
outside the marriage bed

because this is a time
when the loss of innocence
is simply a black ink stain
on a white dress.