You say you won’t go out tonight
but you will, I’m certain;
your eyes will light
as mine go out, your curtain
part, and all the dark illuminate…
You’ll slip out through the narrow door
and down and down
the cobbled street, your step as sure
as if you’d always known the town,
to go to places I have been
with you but will not go again.
How can this be? Can it be fair…?
There is no “fair”-- just you wind
wayward the medieval street,
so lured by everything, and blind…
And who can know whom you might meet
as you go, seeking your own kind?