She lit his cigarette, sniffed his pomade,
Touching the writing desk that reeks of him.
She slipped into his flat while he's away,
And left in time before her will grew limp.
She peruses his words, decoding phrases,
Imagining what he's thinking, elsewhere;
She seals her comments in secret cases,
Hopefully to resist Time's wear and tear.
She shall arise now, waitin' for no tidings.
She'll be fine if that's what she wishes for.
Yet she wallows in reveries, dreaming──
The good old days when parting was no lord.
He said, "It's nothing but a rehearsal."
"It hurts still. My acting is abysmal."
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