Her eyes remind me of staring down
into the dregs of a cola cup
left in a warm sink,
that same unremarkable shade
of wet rust on a bicycle frame.
If I had loved her, I could have told her
that her eyes looked remarkable
in the wasting light, those thin rays
quietly aging our shadows.
Perhaps I could have described to her
the woody shade of almonds
scattered in somebody’s fist.
The burning cap of a field mushroom.
I stare and stare back at those eyes
until the steam hides her away,
and all I can see is a faceless blur
shunting about the bathroom,
grappling for towels.