Obsession Part 3

I shall take my morning walk, communing with the birds and talking to myself while reading Kafka, glancing at the latest headlines. Dear Stravinsky's 'Rite' is slighted, (he'll return when ears are righted.) When I smell a rose I'm prompted to recall a certain lady, gifted with a new perception, I must sadly take exception, for the moment anyway. The chill of morning, people yawning, I am tired, the blush of dawning has me feeling ill at ease, my spirit sags, I barely reach the second floor. 'When will you return? Is Paris so much more than you have here?' is my unanswered question. I drag my heels to breakfast, listless as a lazy dog, and nibble toast, my countenance as pallid as a ghost. A letter would be welcomed. I shall miss you; there, I've said it. I am your friend, are you not mine? Tenuous and strained, two casual acquaintances who share so little time, we brush elbows, like strangers passing on a platform, sharing sidelong glances, afraid to say hello. I watch you as you go. Others swore we would be close, peas in a pod, familiar. Instead there is no warmth, not yet. Were you to try we might combine and nibble toast together, and take a walk, your hand in mine, and stammer conversation 'til we knew there was no reason e'er to rue. I shall sit with pleasant thoughts of you. Desperate, I ponder on your death, scant breath expended twixt the two of us, and loneliness an ache too harsh to mention, pen in hand and no one to subscribe. I'll scarce recall the softness of your skin, or search your heart to find what lies within. Should I be bold, or take a gentler path? encourage you... would I incur your wrath? If you were to die I'd never know your truth, and I should lose the vigour of my youth.