Some places were not meant for love. A shrine graced with pure roofless marble by the glade, as the sun lent us a columnar shade, helped us like rival ivies intertwine. Tourists flashed in to feel and photograph the unchanging statues, trying to ignore the two kids curled like shadows on the floor unseen by those stone gods. Long since I laugh in memory of pallid jealousy they masked behind bold gossip of “What is it with kids today?” with mere stone to admire. You’re what’s with me today, my dear, as we before the altar of our hearth revisit that blessèd blasphemy of our desire.