across the days there would be ways in which to fade out in the crowd
question of chance, or maybe of choice, or maybe just a state of mind
for a while
she'd put up with it
then, at night,
it would suddenly hit
she was the one who wouldn't speak when she was listening to him
she was the one who wouldn't breath unless she went away and screamed
on the bus
the shaking of strings
on her mind
the sound of the things
that would undermine
what was on his mind
that would undermine
the impending demise
that's hanging over him
cold papercuts, no windowsills, and the delusions of space
the crack of time becomes a smell, and then a scent, and then no trace
she's not home
there's no home at all
she's not old
she's not old enough
but still she's expecting
at times unrelentingly
to break her chord

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