"The moon, how wonderfully it shines." She wipes her brow,
The heat of this June night's too much for her.
Inside, the revelries continue on.
The mayhem, wanton (wont as mayhem is),
The outdoors dominates. But who might care?

"To leave behind that grind! oh God in heaven!"
she murmurs. The crescents, full moons are all old to her.
Her hands sustain one callus, twelve years dormant,
Surrounded by no thing but flawless white
Stretched tight (not too tight, mind you) covering
That frame divine of -

"'Scuse me."

- She just sneezed in it.

"What would I do without you?" she yawns.
Then she mumbles to herself of someone absent;
"When will he be back?" He will, I tell her,
For loners will find friends, despair find joy,
The endless night will end,
While here I stand, gregarious and miffed.
My darling shall her distant love recover;
At the end of the night there's only me, there is always me.

Those heels make her jut her torso out,
She struts in circles, as if she knows what she's doing.
All wisdom she possesses, till she speaks;
All beauty is her subject, lest she frown.

"I hope it's not my age
That made him run away." I know him well;
Those two aren't more than twenty days apart.
"Maturity can seem to some off-putting,
Commanding men's attention past all comfort."
Though younger by some months than all my friends,
I've thought a lifetime through. No pause I grant
To feelings, none to love, persist or die.

They die; but not I with them. No, beside
The gauzy decorated girl I stand,
I cannot fathom her.

He still is gone,
She still sniffles. "These, my pains - you must forgive me -
I shouldn't pawn my trouble off on you."
I look into the wood, that thief of souls,
Who in her group has two I dimly see,
A man's familiar face
Enveloped in the kisses of a coquette,
By several years my lady's junior.
I dare not tell her that her love is found,
Nor that his also is, that airy nymphet.

At the height of the night I am here, always;
For her, if it were needed - but devoid
Of any occupation,
Untaken by the slightest care or whimsy,
My free self she sees, perceives my hands are tied.

"I'm distracting you, I know...."
(Am I not worthy of distraction?)
She turns and steps away; the rest is dross.

My sullen gaze ascends. The moon is new....

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