You waved a degree well above her yard-stick, knowing how to connect dots sans yellow
number two, as if you'd channeled her thoughts, problem-not-solving without thieving
or scheming, where a bittersweet victory ensued. Contortionist acts are traded for
the likes of equanimity. In the palm of your hand, you scrolled through pages of knotted
undoing while make-me-safe waited on the other side of the door, dressed silly-putty
svelte in hues of home for one last hurrah. A clock full of attachment ticked toward
the final minutes of shared injuries as she quietly lead you back to task while you
forked away from rhythm. Fingers crossed she made room in a heart because you tell
yourself you don't need to know but you do until you don't. Accessorized with a bent
halo, you walk in stilettoed step with her towards the real world where she let you
go with a squeeze, a wet streak on your face between eyelash and breath where salt
snuck in a cameo and sadness paved its way through cheekiness, where a door gently
closed yet remained ajar.
