Too many eyes I've lost – some have bled so much I couldn't see any other colour. I rather like the pair I have now. Grey, smoky, plunging into such a wilderness that I shudder even as I gaze into the mirror. They call them eyes of an addict.
There's no way I'm losing them on you.
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My terrace was blue and grey in the smoke from your eyes. Not for the first time did we pretend to hear each other's voice, while all that resonated in the balsam twigs was our love lamenting what was left of us. There wasn't much. It didn't hurt me to kiss you any more.
