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.

… 

… 

…