She left the room
and his eyes burned
with the disappointment
that will end
the world.

Embarrassed
and uncovered,
he poured himself
another glass of wine,

It was
too late
for anything else.

and she said she'd miss him,
in the smallest voice,
with sincerity that silenced
the world.

You could have waited,
he thought,
until I was more
than day old alcohol
and the bags under
my eyes,

To say things
that would have made me
fragile
at the best of times.

And she said;
“They’re just scratches,
not deep cuts.”
 
Just the remnants of the itch against it all.
 
“Silly really.”
 

Silly.

And she swayed as she stood.
 
Her eyes flashed vacant.

And the privacy
melts away
between
paper walls of skin.

And she cried out most theatrically,

"My spirit is with you and it is carried in the endless lows of your negligence."


What she meant to say was;

I feel as if;

I am the sleep you wipe from your eyes in the morning,
Or,
I am the ripped and stained pants you throw out,
Disregarded.


She carried on,
but to herself,

"oh, How dejection stings!"


Like the tearing of skin but duller.

Can't someone stop
   This marching of seconds,
It would be nice not to feel
    So wasteful.