He seeks his old home
In her eyes
Like a vagrant.
He asks
– Voice croaking –
“Do you see that pretty painting?”

She spends one moment there
The second: vacant.
And he dies three times
In that waiting.

Chest-pins,
Throat-tense,
Heart screaming,
Not beating.
She’s the one who’s sick,
Yet he feels like fainting.

And then a bittersweet whatthefuck 
As she starts coarsely repeating
– Mind fleeting –
“Pretty painting, pretty painting.”

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