<I behaved as well as I could, though perpetually
Saying to myself, 'Well, I care not how she decides.
I care not much for her; the whole thing was only
Ever a game.' As I left, she hung upon me, crying,
Sobbing aloud, saying, 'I hope we shall meet under
Happier circumstances'--as if the circumstances
Of our next meeting were not entirely up to her.>
I walked home, at much slower than my usual
Pace, my thoughts and movement alike turgid
As though I pushed through snowdrifts, as on
The alp, though instead of icy cold, I felt only
Numbness, and the heavy warmth of all my
Garments, the weight of my enforced patience.
<'Well,' said I to myself as I walked off,
A pretty scene we have had, but surely I care
Not much, and I shall take my time of suspense
Very quietly, easily reconciled either way.>
I reread what I have read and try to own it,
As I always have before. Surely my journal
Can reconcile my memories and my thoughts?
But this afternoon my pen is a weak instrument
For recording what must be. I drop it, weary,
Bilious, inky fingers shaking, my hair in my eyes.
I'd slept perhaps two hours the whole night,
But sleep was even further from me than sweet
Equanimity. I ran, spewed my grief another way.
<Don't do this. Don't you dare do
This to me again, I prayed
In rage. Don't you dare-->