There was a part of my memory that was
So innocent, so beautiful.
It was a part that I ventured into often,
And venture there yet, for it remains
A memory.

Its innocence was before the understanding
Of life; its beauty was before the understanding
Of death. I venture there yet, for it remains
A memory.

It remains an experience.
It remains a growing pain,
Painfully innocent,
Painfully beautiful.
It remains a memory,
So innocent, so beautiful.

I would relive that memory,
But the innocence is gone.
I now understand why,
So there can be no innocence.
I realize how, so there can be no beauty.

The innocence and beauty of an untold love,
Bound up in experimental desire,
Are now replaced by a constricting freedom.
A freedom that comes with understanding,
But prevents any innocence,
Precludes any beauty.

The only innocence or beauty are to be
Found in my freedom to love, and love still.

I am still free to love.
Still, I live.

So innocent, so beautiful:
Life, but not me.