It vibrates before it even begins.
The moping, stony chinned silence.

I anticipate nothing.
I anticipate what I am going to do next.

The void stiffens.
It has a way of causing hysteria.

I am too afraid to ask,
"How did we ever lose our way?"
"How did our love become a contest?"

I am no more than a mattress
on the side of the road, and I know it.



Sara Fielder © May 2022