You told me not to call you by any other name than your own but you are still my penelope. My beatrice. I am waiting in a wine red sea of despair longing for my home. I am dying alone with my poetry. You are in ithica and the nine rings of paradise. You were my wife the second you said i do. What was i to you? Am i your dante or odysseus. Do you miss me now that I'm called away to war? Do you know my dedicated poetry exists for my never mine mistress? Do you know what I've been fighting for? The right to love you in our absence as my ideal as if we had each as the others pathway to paradise.