On that rusty old Parisian afternoon, I stroked past the maple leaves to her,
As I asked her, "Does his absence not bite you?"
She spoke with startling pride,
"You creak of his absence, but they speak of his presence;
The sullen candles are twice as luminous now, for now, he lives in their light, he is the light,
The cottage smells more of musk rose now than it did before, for now, he lives in the burnt end of the incense stick,
The unfaithful cufflinks now remain forever attached to the nomadic ends of his musk rose shirt,
And, he lives in the folded page of the remorseful book that curses its fate, every yellow day of its existence."
How could his morbid flowers ever wither? How could she not bloom?