You are dying of purity and simplicity:
I am guilty, love, I’m confessing
that I, intrepid snatcher of kisses,
I sipped at the flower of your cheek.

I sipped at the flower of your cheek,
and since that glory, that event,
your cheek, so careful and serious,
droops, despoiled and sallow.

The ghost of that delinquent kiss
haunts your persecuted cheekbone,
always more obvious, dark and immense.

And you are sleepless, zealously
watching my mouth, with such care,
so nothing corrupts or outrages!