j'accuse
Humbert's lament: "I was a pentapod
monster, but I loved you." Ain't it sly,
gentlemen of the jury, how this cry
separates love from lover? As if a flawed
container could hold purity—as if God,
abstracted to emotion, could reside
in dark and festering souls. Let's put aside
such sophistry. There's no need for façade.
Our hearts are lattices of layered mire,
and love entwines its roots in that sad mesh.
It comes from dust. And this is not to say
it's meaningless—just that we can't require
our feelings to be nobler than our flesh.
Lamenting: je t'aimais, mais je t'aimais.
