The visage of taffeta & shawl

gave her away. I thought
we had a spark of romance.

A door opened;
there was a backyard.
That panel of glass shattered.

I witnessed it;
I heard the way my heart pounded
as though I was the door.

I asked myself
why pieces of my self
appear stifled by themselves.

Feel the breeze, she said
before she left. The remnants
of her voice form one state,

the reality is the other.
The ticks are unwinding,
I replied—and imagined

how every one of them
sprawls wide open,
as shreds of her taffeta

become unspoken time
whispered to my ears.