He is not the man who was so cold to you nor the one who warmed your thumb or sought to warm your arms and legs. For now, until this vile infect is dead and you amaze again. He is this wall, this room, the books and cloaths you cherish. He is not the memory although the noise is just as bad... (this is event, past tense) (..and not a thing to hold..).

He is the morning bird outside, the wind, the cake you eat... and more strange, so much more strange that he is she, the mimic in the glass at all hours.

The 'do not disturb' is hung, the limbs are flung and a line is quickly drawn, Anette, some chocolate flies and silver disks. Socks and ear-rings, long, long gone. The music it is hers, the cup, the chair, the car in mind.

He is that too, each thing, and place, and nook and crack- he is now the sofa at her back... and intrest peeling off the walls, no vampire crap but cats in nap.

She is the steady smile that comes, from women who, will not be mums, and France, guitar and civil rights.

And hush, for he is this not more, nor a voice at the door. And she is thus and all, that is.