Her ear grows cold, yet she refuses to shut him.
If she shut him, she would miss the curtain
sailing in and out beside her, a paisley breath.
She exhales. He is not really an open window.
This is imagining.
He is a lion, in a dark room,
his own curtains all drawn around him.
Sitting in this hung dark, tools surrounding,
A spade, a shovel, he thinks.
What is he thinking?
No one will know. Least of all her.
She...
She just moves forward. One step, two step. Just like that. Steady progression,
a procession of forgetting
something that never really was
anything.
Curtain keeping her company,
an open window.
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