It must have been like this for Lucifer
and Eve: the lord of hell would stroke her hair
and whisper, “Pretty Eve, my love so fair,
No danger waits for lovers.” Eve would purr
beneath his hand, her sense of pleasure pure,
untouched as yet by yearning and regret,
except for some vague half-forgotten threat
that if recalled would bid her to demur.

You reemploy his words and his caress,
but you are not the devil; I’m not Eve.
I’m easily seduced, I will confess,
but you lack his intention to deceive.
You pet me and implore me to say yes
but I cannot forget and can’t believe.