"in how many languages are our spaces salvaged, or is there a difference?
when our lips meet, will we be speaking the same words?"

down some hall, she musters empty breath, unchanging lamps,
unflickering glint. he takes heavy& soundless steps. books
rearrange, every so eternal. so too do permute the walls, shadows,
patterns, and blotches of rain on the window. only a steady
and unequivocal pulse. the breath and heartbeat of the night's
containment. they mutter questions to bricks. they stand
still under streetlamps, frequently. as the gutter's rivulets
traverse, this town unfolds, like a map along the seams;
"along knives' edge, we exist," unheard, but still agreed upon
by some convoluted scheme. the handle around a corner,
lost from sight. evaporating memories. a season or second
feel the same, hiding behind doors & curtains. pale in
comparison. but, this has been here forever, or at least
four hours. "our slivers of humanity are laid out in
slight movements", once the inside begins hollowing. all
facets brimming with nothing. where once there was a
shuddering between walls rest expanses, unchanging.
each blade of grass, a glistening distance. each swaying
tree, splintering to essential motions. each muffled conversation
a jumble of letters. even glance and skin dissolve
to fragments of blinks.

-a bird sings on a windowsill,
a gentle breeze.-