I thought I heard her footstep on the stair,
the ghost of sorrow. Lingering on the staircase
of my dreams, she curled up like a ball

at the feet of longing. I had forgotten all
about her, after she kept another's company.
But there she was, bitter and alone

once again. What was sorrow now to me?
Only remembrance of how it once was-
the furtive glance, the stolen kiss,

the hidden measure of time passed
hand to hand. Time is what I have
for her no longer, though the memory of her

presses like a twisted nerve on an irregular heart.
Let her leave her fragrance on another's bed
where ghostly sorrow longs to rest her weeping head.