The Café

The café was where he saw her again, the place familiar to them both
a place expected but unwished, for only a matter of time to be stricken
of the rigor mortis of his arteries, he wondered did she not, did she see
did she ever but he will never really know until the blood starts flowing
once more, and he walked home as if his feet touched glowing coals
and as the sweat gathered between his breasts, swelled and trickled
to his navel, he wondered, was it real, was it not, was it ever going
to come true in the light of day, how can an apparition drive him mad!

Like darkness cast by trees in the forest, shadows touch but the fine
branches of foliage carefully keep that small but discernible distance in
between, they will not touch, not beneath the sky, as he never touched
the skin of a woman who could strike him down, he lay in bed, got up,
touched the keys of the glowing machine, the only anima that kept him
and he lay in bed, got up again, looked out the window and wondered
should he tell her, he wondered, about her and the glow of her skin
he wondered, and at the café she also wondered, is it macchiato day?

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"Café" (1949) by Léonard Tsuguhara Foujita