We are invisible, you said to the
Domestic pattern of my shoes
To the
Stairs behind me, which were sharp & white &
So clinical.


We are invisible; a kiss to the hollow of my ear
Though it would have been better suited to a sharp
Incision of a flower-ovary (which has no
Voice, what is
Has no voice)
Or the tearing of my gloves, settled quietly in your hands.


And I wondered, asked: This, too?


Lipstick imprints: the aftermath of a tragedy in its final moments.
This flat red fades to pink to skin.


You smiled in a way
Uniquely yours, although the nonexistent light caught the colder sparks
In your eyes
And without missing a beat, you
Pulled up your collar a half-inch higher
(the gloves, I noticed, were gone too)
And said: see?