The Agonizing Memory

I remember . . . (at what hour of the day
do I not have her in my sight?)--I remember
the way she lifted up her hair with her pale
and feeble fingers. I remember a night she
passed so softly with her cheek on my breast
that the joy kept me awake, and on the morrow
her face showed the mark of the round excrescence.
I see her holding her glass of milk and watching
me sideways with a smile. I see her powdered
and with her hair up, opening her big eyes in front
of the mirror and retouching the red on her lips
with her finger. And, above all, my despair is
a constant torture because I know minute by
minute she sinks into another's arms and what
she asks and what she gives.