Sounds snap, eyes cut, words clip, neck aches, exhale -
just a squall late Saturday night
as the walls buckle and foundation stiffens
in a house that has seen countless viral fights
in its a hundred-odd years.
The lovers, this time, are pugilists
held up by more than simple pride:
held up by imaginary ropes woven
from words that spin like disco globes.
Now they retreat, take precious seconds
to rest in corners before stalking anew
to uncover echoes of negotiations past -
perhaps from fathers, friends, and mothers -
yet these first blurs are in their own heads
the way sunsets and car crash linger and
juxtapose with
quick-pumping lungs and
flinching of lips that neither anticipated.
Passed-on scripts and well-wishes
dissipate the minute they hit the air,
a dreamscape abandoned at its peak.
I wonder if these dreamers know the alarm
will sound
before it does.
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