Writing in the diary of a woman
Who reminds me of you
Surreptitiously I struggle on
Her underthings lie, concealed
In the chest, in the corner
Upon which photos of her sit
Windswept and glowing
I have looked in the chest,
Disturbing nothing, eyes only,
Fear and propriety preventing
Touch and love
What a trade, tragic
Nothing but a dime on a track
In front of a train, halted
I do not really know this woman
Perched on this chest on colored paper,
An acquaintance really
But her diary will miss these pages
Pages full of my life, with you
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