The Old Story

She loved him in the way girls only can
At sixteen, with a maelstrom of desire.
She lingered on his every word. He’d fan
Her glowing embers into open fire.

He pressed his clear advantage, and cajoled:
It’s nothing but a little patch of tissue—
Girls lose it every day. She tried to hold
Him back, explaining sex was not the issue.

She wanted their involvement to be holy—
As sacred as the altar’s golden cup . . .
Momentously transcendent, and not solely
A bloody splotch on bedclothes. He got up
And dressed himself, then said with calm precision
I’ll certainly respect your firm decision.