Your body was coffee cups and cigarette butts
with thoughts expressed in a new English.
To probe your mind would be to spill paint
or release noxious gases into the atmosphere.
We talked about Sisyphus and MaddAddam,
Radiohead and Nenshi, until, exhausted,
we could collapse into the folds of the vortex
and feed bad habits.
I could see you between brushstrokes,
and in the indentations left behind futile erasing.
Casts of tormented characters gazing through canvas.
They may as well all have been self-portraits.
Not freckles, you said.