It Is Night And She Is Lonely…

It is night and she is lonely
and I am lonely like her,
between her candle and mine are two empty tables
in this winter restaurant.
Nothing disturbs the silence between us
She doesn’t see me when I catch her plucking a rose
from her breast and I don’t see her when she catches me
sipping a kiss from my wine…
She doesn’t crumble her bread and I don’t spill water
on the paper tablecloth.
Nothing disturbs the serenity between us
She is alone and I am alone with her beauty. Why doesn’t
frailty bring us together? I ask myself: Why not
taste her wine? She doesn’t see me as I watch her
crossing her legs and I don’t see her watch me
when I remove my coat. Nothing of me disturbs her
and nothing of her disturbs me, we’re in harmony
with forgetfulness…
Our supper, each of us alone, is delicious.
Night’s voice is blue, I’m not alone
and she’s not alone as we listen together
to its crystal.
Nothing disrupts our night.
She doesn’t say:
Love is born a living creature
and becomes an idea.
And I don’t say:
Love has become an idea…
But it seems to be so.