His cheeks have wine spilling across them
(or maybe I am back at last night
watching the red douse my tablecloth,
which I could have saved, perhaps,
but the sight was too beautiful).
Every inhale makes my work more different
(they never told me
how you needed to contend with
the act of someone else’s breathing;
the way they slanted the sunlight,
not the way the sunlight should curve).
They also never mentioned
how to choose between the real and the easy
but I think I shall paint his eyes
(because I see the complexity in them
that I never could in yours, darling).