Don’t come over! I’m entertaining a guest.
It’s Love, come to the 15th floor to pay me a visit. Love has come to me just as to millions of my predecessors up the phylogenetic tree, back to the early hominids who lacked language to express their love: only primate vocal calls. How did love arrive in a primitive heart? Without any fanfare?
….What was Lucy like, in love?…Was a sentimental poem once written in her homely visage? Was there ever a yearning alight in her sunken eyes, as in my myopic ones?
I think I must be in love because the sentimental poetry has left me. After all, though it glorifies the beloved, Love is a plain emotion and a humble one.
Listening to Tartini’s violin sonata; the pathetic notes drift and curl hesitantly out of the open window into a night alive with smoke and laughter. Here, in my little apartment, my young green heart seems to throb with a secret music. Lift a drab head like Cock Robin to sing prematurely that spring has come!
But spring is so far away still! And Beloved, you are no gentle Chinook! I feel your indifference as a cold boreal wind from the capital. It will not thaw.
Robin, you must have been a lover once! –Stop singing for a moment, look down!
Robin, was it Cupid that smote you? –Your breast is still red and raw with the wound.