I do spend more time than I ought to
Here. Am I foolish? Who'd ever say no?
The sun's wandered off again, yet I remain
In my shirt sleeves. I shiver but can't
Turn away. You don't want me so much
As I wish that you did, and you're burdened
With scruples which don't cling to me,
So you look as if you'd like to kiss me,
But don't, and I look, as you put it, as if
Something's died. In a sense, something
Has, I suppose, and I ought to
Acknowledge the loss, and just go.