He glances over at his favorite acquaintance.

The woman does not dare look back;

she averts her gaze.

She had offered her eyes to him

on a few occasions in the past,

but when she did her looks were icy.

He now craves those cold nights.

He reminds himself:

lust is a lie for love,

but his hunger refuses to subside.

She knows his name

but refuses to speak it.

She knows his face

but refuses to see it.

She knows his presence

but refuses to feel it.

Her hand waves at passers-by

and he longs to be one of those privileged strangers,

because for him her hand goes mute

and her smile is lost.

Lust is a lie for love,

he reminds himself,

so why won't the pain die?

It refuses to believe

that the feeling is fake,

and until it does

it will stand stubbornly in reality,

and mercy will be as absent

as her voice.