That’s the North Star, he tells himself
as he turns from the window. That’s
the way to go.

He’s wrong.
It’s Betelgeuse, but it doesn’t matter because
he’ll never get to share the thought,
and no one will get to correct him.

Then, there’s one final act
of tragedy:
it comes unexpectedly to him
that her hands
on his forehead feel false, as if
her compassion includes some measure
of contempt. He grasps at the hope
that he’s wrong,
but it eludes him
as she shuts his eyes.