she does not hide in these walls or this mirror or the moonlit sun, posturing in the window. she has no use for my heart, knowing, as I, the capriciousness of beating instruments. she lays behind my eyes, deaf to the drumming ears, stepping in the soles through the malady of being. I do not long for her - she is my bed, the warm contentment of skin, smiles of alien limbs. her finger traces my lip, and I look behind her eyes into mine. 8.2.98