At least in bed, we are alike, hair down, white linen
Covering us lest the servants walk in, a shared sheet,
A shared blanket, shared candlelight as we grubble,
Shared darkness as we doze, sated, and then, shared
Daylight maneuvering its way around the curtains.
We talked between kisses all night, talked between
Me drifting off, then her, then waking to talk again.
I find the tale she is telling me disturbing. It fills in
Details left out of her letters, gaps that made me
Wonder, worry, not a little jealous, though I tried
To wave it off. I say, "I didn't realize that you and her
Were so close. I suspected something, but..." Her hand
Strokes the linen over my knee, saying, "It was just
Something to do. I was bored. And lonely." She tells me
It's all off now, but she won't meet my eyes. "Freddy,
Are you crying?" "No, it's just--" "Is she very rich?"
"Yes, but it's not that. It was to start, but then..."
And I wonder about that look in her eyes, far-off,
Romantic, idealistic. Once again, she tried for that
Hopeless wish she had, and once again, she failed.