Wednesday, January 20, 2016

You Almost Said

The moment you step onto her porch
the glass doorknob turns to sand in your grip.
You turn to go but the door is tranformed
into a sheet of water that collapses with a splash.
You wipe your wet shoes on the carpet,
then step into the wallpaper and stroll
through its velvet gardens
while she waits for you on the ceiling,
absentmindedly snapping licks of flame
from the chandelier, flinging them to the floor
to watch them shatter.
By the time you return, the moonlight is boring holes
through the plywood curtains. When she looks at you
the air in the room turns to marble, trapping you like a fossil,
filling your lungs with stone the moment
you open your mouth to tell her

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