On The Stairs

As I was going down those ill-famed stairs
you were coming through the door, and for a second
I saw your unfamiliar face and you saw mine.
Then I hid so you wouldn't see me again,
and you hurried past me, hiding your face,
and slipped inside the ill-famed house
where you couldn't have found pleasure any more than I did.

And yet the love you were looking for, I had to give you;
the love I was looking for -so your tired, knowing eyes
implied-
you had to give me.
Our bodies sensed and sought each other:
our blood and skin understood.

But we both hid ourselves, flustered.

Constantine P. Cavafy

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