There are certain nights, which could be
Half-depicted by the slow shaking of your head, or
A dead star, curling in itself,
When I can look into your half-bitten eyes
And forget that I am not enough.

There are so many meanings in the bitter smile
Of a smoke-curl.
Though infinitely more in the cold touch of hands
(Complete the task for I am only half-numb)

I could still drown and burn and
Fall again into the hand-like-touching haze of
Talking to you
(no, to someone else, someone else—you see,
I would like to forget, still).

A month or more before, I asked you what you thought of
Van Gogh and life and
Seeing Ireland in winter (maybe walking across the hills and
Kicking away the snow, to see if everything's still green
You looked at me (or maybe even through me)
And a second just before the automated smile, I did not exist.

Maybe even then, you were very far away.

In the summer when there is no rain, I will look for
Dying stars—

Next time,
I will wear an extra pair of eyes.