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.