Yesterday, I asked ;

“Shall the shell I took shelter crumble

Or should I live quietly as a number?”

Questions arouse one by one,

Even the slumber of my being

— called me with a meaning.

He sighed ;

“Say, me.

Can I call you pretty?

I mean you look pretty,

but this is not you, is he?

Did you paint him with the blood

you drew from our lips on the cloud?

Yet the toothache…

Was it there before the art you created

— caused you to be sick,

— devastated you whole,

and wore you thin?”

I couldn’t reply,

but he smiled.

I covered my mouth,

and he covered his.

Yesterday mirror was dirty,

full of my fingerprints.