The hurt was histories old, but the bruise was aching new.
I thought how, when divided by time, sly sadness spreads through
in proportion, its division a sum multiplying.
In framed moments it is fathomless, uncontrolled, drifting.
When does love die? It’s always well before the knot unties,
when the mind creeps upon an unknown stage, and distant cries
record a small tweak of disappointment that, silent, grew.
You saw no evidence, even as you smiled your way through,
rehearsing the sudden lost illusion, eager to please,
quick to dismiss the vandal ghost that wanders through your rooms,
breaking precious things. But you missed it, you turn down the bed,
and hope for the best as doubts cluster close around your head.
August 2021