Pity

He meticulously lifts each strand of hair from my face
Looks deeply into my eyes and tells me
Why and how we cannot be.
I listen to him; I always have
And take the next bus home.
He held my face under the street light,
The last acknowledgment of love,
The pain and the betrayal-
My tears vouched for it.


I see him now- him with his daughter and his paunch.
He has grayed at thirty-four
His spring lost in sensex and beer
His charm devoured by corporate slavery
He is just a lumpish sack of rotten desires.
No I bear him no malice.
You must know, I'm not vengeful.
I often pass by the street lamp
Where he had kissed me with pure sympathy
And whispered that he'd always love me
When I felt like the miserable old cat
Nearing expulsion.
He demanded the last avowal of love
And had revealed my face to the light
My kohl smudged eyes slurred by betrayal
Tears rolling down my cheeks
I was ashamed, afraid, vulnerable.
He had looked satisfied
And perhaps concealed an impish smile.
No I bear him no malice, I repeat.
I laugh out loud.