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