I couldn’t give you an ending but I’ll start it anyway
The light was sinking sand
and it devoured the postcard
night
.
and us as moths,
diligent moths,
falling at each others
fingertips.
.
You ordered coffee
and I declined:
two milk, two sugar.
.
We settled somewhere familiar
tentatively at first
.
I think because routine is religion
and that’s something finite.
.
If we’d jumped under a bus
or from the cliffside, crumbling
that would be finite too.
.
So, we didn’t.
.
“Double, double
toil and trouble”
.
was all I could recall
and I could smell treason
.
or maybe larceny
- fellony at the very least -
.
or cigarettes
on the tides of your breath.
.
When you spoke, eventually,
I couldn’t tell if your eyes blazed
.
with intelligence or just
a futile honesty.
.
They faced the windows anyway
and any assumptions were based
on your profile.
.
And I knew it then,
that it wasn’t death.
.
It just wasn’t life either.
