When this love was not knives

I prided myself in simply knowing:

Being able to pinpoint his laughter

from the resonant balconies of auditoriums,

Predict his speech,

Map his countenance

and the paths of his eyes.
But he walked in that morning wearing your vestige like a smile,

with the glittering of your eyes in the corners of his,

and I knew that I knew him no more.
Now that you’re there,

mosaic-ed to his eyelids 
when he dreams,

fluttering in the chambers of his muse,

There is nothing about him that only I know.