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.