I wish I could see what I used to see, my sight of that sight now fading. But that’s just my eyes peering into the void where once some body stood. I’ll admit that I probably saw better from the corners of these windows to my soul, but that’s because I hardly ever look at you straight-on, for, to do so, would allow you to see me. I wish I could hear what I used to hear, the soundness of my hearing now smothered so. But that’s just my ears, useful only for holding up my glasses for these shy eyes that can’t see some body anyway. Isn’t it odd that I saw best when my ears faced you and I heard best when we were face to face, the better to focus on not much more than your lips? But what does it matter? I always see you best when I close my eyes and hear you well enough when I pull the wires from my ears. Then, some body's youth never fades like my senses, as I fumble around the corners of recollection in this haunted house between my shoulders, searching for one more sniff, taste, or touch.