I sit on the floor in a corner

I sit on the floor in a corner with a candle and thoughts experimental regarding a lost opportunity to either for once be honest about my feelings or forever degrade myself by confessing my morose love for a woman who’s out of the question. She’s engaged, and, by nature, affectionate, it seems, and companionable, which is her good fortune, although her fiancé is in another state. My love is like a weed because it’s hopeless. It is cast in the sand. What can I confess? It is more an accusation than a promise. But let me be lashed by the whip of happiness; let me be bruised in anticipatory rapture. Anything rather than suffer morose regret at never having told her yet that there’s more than one man who loves her.

18 May 1977