Would rouse my hopes by rising, just to die
away a floor below or to pass by,
Indifferent, in rhythmic dwindling pairs.
I'd drain cup after cup of tea in feigned
Placidity. And write in careless tone
As if the care that loomed was not my own.
But soon the cup of self deceit was drained.
Then I would leave my room and roam the streets
In search of stronger potions that might numb
The throbbing of my melancholy sore.
Thus did I spend my days, those were the beats
That marked the passing of the hours glum,
Until the steps, your steps, passed by no more.