If my love is like a red red rose, then a red red rose is also like my love, and perhaps Burns was thinking of the folded petals nestled between the twin stems of her legs, holding honey inside.
If my love is like a melody that’s sweetly played in tune, then a sweet melody is like my love, perhaps like her cries of pleasure as he opened the rose and sought inside.
If the love of Solomon and Sheba is like the love of Israel and Hashem, or the love of God and the Church, or the love of Christ and the soul, then the love of the body is like the love of the soul, the body with its breasts like twin gazelles, its ruddy tower, its belly-heap-of-wheat, its dripping myrrh.
If eros is a metaphor for agape, then agape is a metaphor for eros, because the metaphor is a seesaw, a bridge, a two-way street, and the love of an emperor for a youth is divine love, and the love of a youth become god is an erotic love, is a sexual love, is a romantic love, is a passionate, quivering, dripping, fragrant, noisy love,
and this, Antinous, my beloved, is the only love I have ever truly desired.