A month ago, I did not see you.

I miss your musty old house, with its creaky boards. A month ago, I stood in a crowd of people, listening to one of the girls you approved of sing, and I didn't see you. There were surges of feet and jostling people, and I was looking at her illuminated face, and wondering where you were watching her from.

This is the way of things, isn't it? Brief meetings and caresses and then disappearances. I am not very good at it.