I'll study my body as it lies alone
naked and loveless in this empty room
accepting the hopelessness of the telephone,
the turn-off television's silent gloom.
She might have loved me. We are all grown old
not in our bodies as much as in our hearts.
Somehow everything got cracked. We fold
our sheets back and crawl in with all our parts.
She might have loved my body. Not dead yet,
by any means, or so I'm sure they'd say.
She might have loved. My body's set
like all toward death, but death's a long, long way.
She might have. Well, the stars, I do suppose,
drift westward yet, without hope or repose.