She opens her eyes, says:
stop lying.
She says she hopes she'll never know anything,
anything the way you do.
She says: I don't want to know
anything the way you do,
with that death-derived certainty,
that hopeless monotony,
the same every day of your life,
every night, and that deadly
routine of lovelessness.
All you remember of the whole affair
are certain words she said in her sleep,
the ones that tell you what's wrong with you:
the malady of death.
Soon you give up, don't look for her anymore,
either in the town or at night or in the daytime.
Even so you have managed to live that love
in the only way possible for you.
Losing it before it happened.
