Poetry
Illicit Love
And a sinfully good villanelle

Recently, a good friend asked me to help him with a memoir he’s writing. He told me that he was hesitant to let me read it because I might judge him for some of the things he reveals about his private life and his history. But his is an important story with an important message for a lot of people, and I told him that. I also told him not to worry about what I may think, because everyone has a past. Even me. Maybe even especially me.
Whether or not we regret our histories, we drag them like a tattered backpack, gathering grime, rips, and patches, but always a solid container for every misadventure we tangle with along our life paths. Our backpacks are full of pain, joy, love, guilt, tragedy, and fun times too. They define us. We should celebrate them!
All of my friends (you know who you are!) have a past — maybe more than one! — and I salute you for going for the gusto and surviving it all. Some of you have even written about your (mis)adventures, boldly sharing so that others can learn, or heal, or even laugh out loud.
So, this is for my friend who’s writing his revealing (perhaps shocking!) memoir, to let him know he’s not alone in having lived a life of his own choosing, and that it takes a megadose of bravery to share this with the whole world. Bravo, my friend!
And now, my turn…
Illicit Love
It’s time to go, the hour is near. I love you, girl, you’re my best friend, but she must never find you here.
We’ve known each other many a year, through ups and downs and ‘round the bend. Now it’s time to go, the hour is near.
We’re a perfect fit, that much is clear. It’s difficult to comprehend, but she must never find you here.
I pace the floor ’til you appear, and wish our time we could extend but it’s time to go, the hour is near.
You know that I am quite sincere — the two of us a perfect blend — but she must never find you here.
Our love is true, you mustn’t fear, but I’m not free, I can’t pretend. It’s time to go, the hour is near. And she must never find you here.
— Adelia Ritchie







