Analysis of villanelle of patient lament

oh, i’m afraid my patience is spent
for the world has too heavy a hand,
and it is the past i’ve come to lament.

old days of sunlit skies and hours content
i am a hungry body aching for love without remand,
but i’m afraid that patience is already spent.

if your patience were a thing of torment
i would recognise it, as the cheek knows the hand
love’s absence echoes, wailing in red lament.

recall the days i’ve darkened your door, bent
half over, swimming in brine and unable to stand.
you said quick - “i’m afraid my patience is spent”

didn’t you? quick to flee, these fickle creatures we pretend
to be; in love and unconditional on demand.
we must become figments to love, i lament. i lament.

sweet, i remember the touch of love once meant
for me, and me alone - though memory is cruel and
i’m afraid my patience is long spent.
such is the past i’ve come to lament.