The first thing that he noticed was her face,
her shy, beguiling, slightly orange face.
He thought of how he’d like to kiss it,
but kept this foolish fancy sealed inside
his clumsy mouth. “So far beyond my reach,”
he mumbled to himself. “Forever and
forever and forever and forever.”
He knew that if he spoke of love to her
his tender words would fall on stony ears.
The more aloof and distant she appeared,
the more he’d fret within his sleepless heart.
He turned his back upon the moonless day,
he spurned the company of other men,
until, in time, his solitude was total.
Despairing of this life, he wrote his love
a letter, knowing that she wouldn’t read it:
Your Beauty doth Eclipse the Sun,
And Would that I Your Love had Won,
But, Oh, Alas, Your Heart is Made of Stone.
He looked towards the sky for one last time
and used his final breath to blow a kiss.
(23rd July, Banyuls dels Aspres)