A narrow street in Ghent, Belgium.  Dark blue;
late dusk.  Lit windows are small golden squares,
and you slouch in an entranceway. 

                                                                So true,
that this may be the end.  And please, no tears.
You hear a rustling, flights above; perhaps
she’s coming down now: this is it!  Beware,
you tell yourself, of being weak; no hopes
remain of reconciling. 

                                          Stare and stare,
but she’s not there.  You must have heard a breeze.

So emptiness replaces stress.  The sky
goes almost black; more windows come ablaze.
The minutes drag: go up the stairs?  You sigh
at fate’s perversity—you need your pride—
and leave. 

                    Night drowns you in its poignant tide.