The cant of her hips, the quirk in her smile — her, her I want, because she is worthy of wanting.
I want her. Her, no substitute, not older, smarter, more defined. Her. Just her. As she is, unbidden, freshly spawned with untested fawn-like legs and thoughts.
I want her. And it makes me an object of pity.
For she is young. And straight. And there is so much for her to learn (on her own…not from me). But–
Lie? I cannot. I want…I want. I want and I want her, more than I deserve, more than I can but ask for.
But, I may pray. I may beg. (I do; I will)
“Please. Forgive me for my sins. Forgive me for my weakness. If but her, yes, please, if but her, anything. I will. I cannot forget. I will, I will as you ask and as you deserve. Just her. Please. I beg.”