It is deceptively simple,
the hunger which compels me here,
here in the Russian part of town.
They talk to each other with seas
of syllables which constantly
crash over my breakers and remind
   me of her — her voice, her eyes.
It is deceptively simple,
like the vase which sits on her
windowsill — black painted flowers on
white porcelain — never mind the
fact that none of the lights are on.
It seems simple and it is not,
not when I ring the bell knowing
there will be no answer, not when
I realize that happiness
is too rare and too hard to come by —
   not when I know she still lives here,
but I leave no note and expect
no reply. There are no flowers
in the vase on her windowsill.