I look at people
on the bus stop
in the market line
on the street

their empty eyes
unwavering
firm
meant to be

how, I think
can they persist
while the nostalgic abyss
managing to miss

me whereas I stand
eyes teared, reaching the end
barely escaping the wound
of our last joined moon

glimpses of him, with her, I catch
still I imitate a productive life
ignoring my heart’s scratch
I watch him pass, the knife

I catch a sound though
a sad silent whimpering
I reach, I see, I stand low
crystal glass eyes glimmering

face, unrecognizable
voice completely mute
yet I feel in my bones as if
we’re wearing the same suit

‘look around’ she says
I turn a surprised stare
‘your own eyes’ again says
‘are everything but rare’

I look at the eyes
on the bus stop,
the market line,
the street

Finally I feel relief
not for his eyes, but strangers’
that former memories
still seek.