Night after night you enter the dark of her sex,
almost unwittingly take that blind way.
Sometimes you stay there;
sleep there, inside her,
all night long,
so as to be ready if ever,
through some involuntary movement on her part
or yours,
you should feel like taking her again,
filling her again,
taking pleasure in her again.
But only with a pleasure,
as always, blinded by tears.
She'd always be ready,
willing or no.
That's just what you'll never know.
She's more mysterious than any other
external thing you've ever known.
Nor will you, or anyone else,
ever know how she sees,
how she thinks,
either of the world or of you,
of your body or your mind,
or of the malady she says
you suffer from.
She doesn't know herself.
She couldn't tell you.
You couldn't find out anything about it from her.
