It is true that I was obsessed with her,
but where, I ask, is the shame in that?
It may be that we were husband and wife
although, as neither of us were inclined
to speak of the matter, I no longer knew.
She would disappear for no reason at all,
forsaking all my attentions
for the solace of cold, indifferent streets.

Night after worrisome night I would walk,
imbued in the scent of her hair until
by some wry mischance we would pass unbeknownst
on a rainy boulevard, peering from under
tilted umbrellas, her startled eyes
soft in the moistened air.

At times,
when the lindens that lined the streets were strewing
their violet air-borne fragrances
and the night was limned
with a drifting implication of rain,
we would wordlessly conspire to meet
at a nondescript café by the Seine.

Invariably she was late, appearing
as an afterthought in the open door,
immersed in a rain-grey dress, requesting,
as always, a table quite to herself,
an empty glass, a partial pear.

Our conversations were cryptic, consisting
of tentative phrases on napkins which
the waiters would whisk away with our plates,
all our guarded avowals crumpled up
and cast amid crumbs.

At other tables
the patrons appeared as little more
than transitory impressions, scarcely
occupying their places, sometimes
vanishing altogether.

As minutes
conceded to hours, I’d watch her watching
the green and milky nimbus that swirled
in the mesmerizing depths of her glass.
The hiss of the street through a lowered blind
found no response in her face, while her eyes,
for all their gray, unspoken sorrow,
asked nothing of me, nor of anyone.
For this, above all, I desired her.

And always, whenever she took her leave,
I would manage to miss her, turning to speak
the moment she stepped away . . , a glimmer
of falling rain through a darkened door.