Vincent, On His Ear
You needed something, dearest,
for the longest time I didn’t know what.
The weeks and months we spent in sharing
the meager and the in-between times,
I searched as I could for the answer
and my angers swirled — so casually
conspicuous to those in the lanes
and shaving the fields, but enormous
in my sight and your eyes. So often
you seemed to understand, whether it was
pretense or my own vicious desire
presenting me that unfounded vision.
Your little girl knew, she understood
better, in a way beyond me, and you
gave her to me, to have that understanding
out of your way, out of your fear.
Of losing what? The few pennies
your surging thighs kept from me,
could garner from the casually conscious?
Theo was supportive, but warned me,
as ever. What could even he know here,
with his wife, and his rooms in Paris?
This is where my life is, where my soul lies,
here, where you once were, where you said
I never listened. Look at me now,
and hear how wrong you were, how wrong.
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