What is love if it isn't
to think of you and smoke
one insomniac cigarette after another,
blowing my breath against
the silent ungiving silence of my room?
What is love if it isn't
to imagine a miracle might just happen
and the soft falls of the new lodger upstairs
might be yours?
What is love if it isn't
to think I might, just might
run into you, outside Le Cafe, near the gift shop
that sells one pound paper hearts?
This is not love at all though, I know,
this unrequited monster, this "pale fire"
these "forty-five hundred heartbeats per hour".
But it might just be.
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