Confession—sometimes, I feel so
distant from the opaque
look of love, which I
still see lingering on her face,
even though she's no longer
here in the same
room with me, that I grow
coolly certain
that the world is
not really the whole world—
that somehow, the earth
is actually a billion
different and
ghostly transparent planets, each one
the exact same size,
all of them—timed precisely
to keep
orbiting, pale and silent,
indifferent
but exactly—actually, make that
excruciatingly
cruelly—right on top
of one another,
forever.
