She tries to bring herself to care.
Him, him— It is always about him.
Some days she wants to dress
all in white. Some days she wants
to flood her body cobalt and iridium,
wants to glow from the inside out.
Wants to walk the rehabilitation ward’s
halls and touch each penitent’s bowed
head. His she will not. It is not her
he shakes for. Sweat on his temple.
Eyes down. And something akin
to caring splinters her haze, at last. Yes,
she likes to see him here, like this.