Next to you
sunlight echoes
its last breath
forfeiting to touch
our fingers.
What comes next

is not lost.
This fantasy
between us
sits outside
your hardwood door
on my granite floor

lying in the rummage
of papers and voices.
The high notes
and low tides
of our time ran out
like your balding

heart. Maybe
my children will have
mental imbalances as well
I can feel it
trickling in like wearing
black stockings

and padded shackles.
Theres no simpler way
to throw caution
against the wall
and strangle it
to escape the fantasy.