As evening comes with perfumes in the air
I watch you coming down. And, at your back,
Everyone seems to be going somewhere
With just the sense of direction you lack.
Your eyes are blank as those whose heads are packed
With stories of parties and prostitutes,
And all the other things that you have lacked.
The city has so many curious routes.
Memory directs your aimless, drunken feet
And leads you into alleys long forgotten
Across the usual boredom of the street
To where your home is, where your heart has rotten.
But evening is your witness, for it knows
The secrets folded in your heart of rose.