If it had been an affair,
she might have left suddenly,
claws snapping shut,
a beating heart clamped inside,
its valve bursting, gasps.
But it's slower-
winter wending into spring,
willow branches drooping,
heavy with snow,
water pooling in the melt,
seasons collecting like leaves
whose damp veins eventually decay.
How he listens less often,
but still, she builds a nest
from stray words,
maybe one day
if only I stay
a tattered woof and warp,
woven without conviction.
How she puts her hand on his,
and whispers softly
as fingers wander
like escape artists,
her breath a song,
its chorus filling the halls
in waves
that eventually
stop coming.
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