Guest, by Vikram Seth

I woke.  He mumbled things in the next bed.
I lay there for an hour or so.  At four
The alarm rang.  He got out of bed.  He wore
Nothing.  I felt his sleepy classic head
And long-limbed body stir my quiescent heart.
I'd thought that I was free.  Wrong from the start.
I found I loved him entirely instead.

There was no real hope.  "Guy loving guy?
Man, that's a weird trip- and not for me."
I accepted that.  But next day warily
We coiled to snap or spring.  Rash truth.  To lie
Still could have spared the trust; the warmth as well.
I left his room that day.  I try to tell
Myself this sorrow like this ink will dry.

-- from 12 Modern Indian Poets