She wants me to tell her she's beautiful.

Backed against the sightless January sky

She wants, oh, so much that is impossible

Leaning her face against the window, I

Can see the vibrations shake her out of

Study of the skyscape, the Keats she reads:

Like beauty could make her just bulletproof

This is not contempt: just the first seeds

Of something less tangible than air

Only I feel bleaker than before,

Maybe there are things that can't be repaired

It's not that I can't stand her anymore,

I just don't want to. The train's pulling in,

I wake her and her eyes make me certain.

I'm leaving