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