Do those colors dull an aching heart?
—or those tired eyes run dry of tears?
Just perhaps, or just not at all.

And do those streets shelter you from her gaze?
—or is it the cold that numbs the pain
and freezes the blood that betrays
a deeper feeling she could never bestow

and your eyes—seemingly gazing
—longing, or with a certain weary contempt
at a past rendezvous
where she whispered a deceiving I love you.

but why look so lost—so forlorn,
if indeed I am musing and just confusing
a subtle meaningless,
but meaningful picture.
—then why glance over those slumping shoulders,
almost like at a regretfully beautiful memory

that haunts this black and white
(it truly isn’t so black and white, now is it?)
and a head tucked
so low—
—so low
and what woman was she?
—maybe not a woman…
maybe?

And what if maybe
Could have been the difference?
—if she had whispered
maybe.