for now i will comfort myself with
eager reassurances that you will
return. i will wait impatiently.
i will send letters, and turn over
the memories of your words, of
your hand on my cheek, and that
indecipherable look in your eyes.
i will write poetry, and send it to you.
i will inflict it on the world,
that they may know that i love you.
i will regret the wasted days, and
hope you have not taken them too much
to heart. i will wonder what you
are thinking of me these days. i
will not dare to ask, except in
poetry. at least you will forgive me that.
i will fall into incoherencies,
the last refuge of stumbling love.