She stands waiting;
wondering; will he
take me to lunch first?
He smiles and takes
her hand; palms press
and she smiles back.
See, he must love me.

There is silence then,
broken only by the guilty
sound of knifes and
forks scraping on plates.
He waits; impatient,
but she sees only
what she wants to see.

Later there are sighs,
harsh and fragmented by
the tapestry of circumstance.
Satiated, he smiles,
tells her he loves her.
She smiles back, hearing
only what she wants to hear.

He knows then, he has
simply to look, only to
beckon over his shoulder
and she will return;
guarding herself against
the uncertaintly of tomorrow
and the certainty of being alone.

He smiles, then takes his leave
as she knows he must.
And her eyes are like pieces
of glass, all brittle with the
rainfall of love. But the echo
of his compassion is no
more than a cloud passing by.