With crooked lines I trace The creases of my face. They deepen more and more, In every open space, And taunt me from the pores. But are they truly there? Even when I stop, stare: My eyes are known to lie, Still kept with our affair, Still in bed at Shanghai. The odor of the tea That blended you, and me, Keeps pooling in my nose; Your wellspring cups are free, But not what they bestow. It has grown bitter now To taste the broken vow, But it's enough for me. It is all I allow; It is all that I need. When comes the blissful end, I pray you might attend. Bless the room with a kiss That I can just pretend It is I you will miss.