I do not know what he wishes me to write, but I do not know what he sees

 when he looks at me

 for he stares quite differently.

He raises his face and makes me shy

   —I see him as he speaks.

   I hear not what he hears, but I see all he feels.

His eyes are a purple flash

    Strong as steel.    O' colors unknown

   —And I see beyond them well.

His voice is a ribbon of sound

    Waiting to be kissed, or cut.

   —Here he is changing before me.

His nose is broad and cold,

   But his voice is sweet and high

    —his mouth twists and he strains to cram in words

Yet I am so deaf to hear

   —I merely stare.

But I see still,

His hand— His hand is cold.

He's dead.

— Since 1985.

This poem is inspired by Puttin’ on the Ritz and Leo Tolstoy’s War and Peace.