In the kitchen stands my love.
I want to unfold her
Like a tablecloth, smooth her edges,
And feast upon her; but there
Is a draft, and she is sick.
I feel cold like glass in the morning.
No glances, no words can cure
This elusive girl.
All I can do is wander alone, in thought,
Until from love and despair I, too, am sick,
For my only path to healing winds through her.
Written on Friday, November 22nd, 2002