We were sitting close, side by side,
when I told her that I loved her.
She was silent for a moment,
and then grabbed my hand into hers,
and she told me that she loved me — 
and then followed a long pause, a silence.

That moment, her hand in mind, mine
in hers, was a lull in the storm,
a momentary fulfillment
of a blind, ferocious hunger.
But she was married, with two sons,
and could not think of leaving her husband.

Why, she wondered, wasnąt it
enough? What drove her towards me?
And she had no intention of
adultery, although we did
kiss, and it was enough to know
that kisses, in themselves, were dangerous.

I knew I could not ask her to
leave her husband — she would never
be able to see me without
regret — that cloud would be too much — 
besides it was not a sit-
uation I could reconcile myself with.

I told her there were no right answers — 
     but that we could not renege
on our responsibilities — 
Fate taunts us for our loss of freedom,
     but if we care for those we
love, then the chains of love might be worn lightly. . . 

We were sitting close, side by side,
and I held her hand, here, in mine.
I am sorry, she said, that things
cannot be different. I put
on a brave face and told her not
to worry, that we would both be alright.

It is a hunger, this heart:
   there are no right answers.