Conversation slams a door,
listening to the afternoon
decompose into a shadow
under the glass faced table.
All vital signs thin
into a red thread
pulled between our teeth.
We breathe silence into weather,
making it impossible to hang on.

And without a cry, our skins
emerge from an undergrowth
of syllables, fleeing with the moon
toward the Great Highway
to the heart with no hesitation.

Our love is no longer secret,
sinking into a wilderness
of darkened windows.
Morning enters
and I find you suspended
like an echo
between the fingertips
of the wind

followed by no one.