Red lipstick marks his orange shirt collar
and from his hand dangles
the dying embers of his second-to-last cigarette.

He is leaning
on that windowsill,
that transparent, locked door,
that windscreen,
which protects that world from him
and him
from the world. But in this room,
this box-like, world-like room,
is me.

I tried too hard to be the way
You want me. Always t, h, and may.
Not can, never can. Now it's disappointment I fear,
Not death, or the dark. Those fears are not fear
Anymore.
Is that good? That I understand its
Not always possible to (understand). That things happen,
And that love has no constant definition
By any stretch of the imagination, which, by the way,
Is always better harnessed.
It can get lonely, outside the box.
Looking in.