"She wasn't singing for me, anyway."
To sin is to trespass,
and I'm so tempted
by the shadow on the page of music,
half-hidden from my understanding.
She turns, perhaps she's heard
My heavy footfalls, though I hold my breath,
and pray: make me invisible, too late...
She pauses now, all wrapped in red and lace,
soft fur and black velvet,
silent, lips parted:
Were you leaving?
And I know, with deep sorrow,
That I will never hear her sing.
She wasn't singing for me anyway.