A pile of white towels in the corner;
a duct-taped X on your bedroom floor.
The backdrop is pitiless, like a late Rothko,
the Marlboro smells belated—
and I grow nostalgic
for absolutely nothing. I want more than your little
lash marks, your vulgar watch. More
than art school. More than the greatcoat
in Tom Ford’s last Gucci collection
(“I’m stunning”, the mirror lies). I want lust
as cold, precise, and prescriptive
as the en dash of a dead man.