Watch my wrist open the pane a sliver.
Pay no attention to the hand behind
the curtain. The strings I pull unveil tonight’s
darkness and soft glow. Your tugs reveal
a cawing, clawing masquerade. I’m ready
to untomb our romance, give air from without
these walls, so we might finally chalk out
darkness, make room for another death, and
watch cemetery plots become cliche.
This archetype is one of fantasy.
We tell the same story in different eras,
settings and costumes only curtain masked
faces who house the right embraces. Little
slips into this lot, so a little death
tears me down when you hook me with whispers
and fingertips. Though less can be more,
you overdo it and strip away
like weathered paint on our one story house.