It's not anything now, a flower pressed in a book,
An occurrence, barely remembered, drained
Of life.  I loved her, and why?  A ridiculous
Question.  Reason may lead one to enter into
Alliances, partnerships, cabals, and so forth,
But love isn't reasoned.  It simply arrives.  She
Was strange.  She was just what I wanted just
Then, and I think that she wasn't aware that
She drew me, like some piece of driftwood
Would find itself sucked in, circling helplessly
Into her eddy.  Closer and closer I came.  Then,
She left!  I was desperate to learn where she'd
Gone, and to join her.  I did.  I walked to her dumpy
Apartment, climbed up the fire stairs, knocked on
Her door, and proved by so doing that I really
Loved her, if she hadn't known, and it wasn't
Too long before I didn't leave.  We were perfect
Together, impoverished, bohemian.  Then,
A day came when we suddenly weren't.
She told me to leave.  I moved out and I cried,
But all that remains is a husk of a memory,
Which doesn't move me at all.