she waits for a grand
narrative revelation,
a cup of tea made
by cold hands?
narrative revelation,
a cup of tea made
by cold hands?
she lingers in
the doorway, asking
if i have seen
her glasses lately?
she chokes on
the sunlit dust,
as the windows burn of
city smog, & the birds
go flying overhead
...
lamenting the time
she spent without you.
the nervous stroke of her hand,
two minutes past the hour.
because time was just a measure
from the place
she saw you last.
she pulled the covers
over her heart,
& asked it to
stop beating.