Something Missing

you used to stare at my hands,
touching each fingertip,
moving slightly, the bracelets dangling from
slightly bent wrists.

once you even smiled,
carefully nodding at the few lines of verse,
i wore on my arm
like one of those New York Bolshevik writers
of fifty years gone past..

now you don't even look into my eyes.

and i wonder like Kubrick writing Strangelov,
who has disappeared?

me or you.