I'll never say a thing.

When you turned to me to leave the room

I was standing still half past noon

no shadow to speak of I reached for the door

turning heads, from the wall, in a frame, so you stalled.

I checked my rearview mirror for a while,

prolonged my indecision wasted time in rhymes of recollections

of have-nots and should have-beens.

Quite kindred of my splinters I'll have again.

While you were sleeping I imagined you were seeing

what my waking eyes could see.

Except the ceiling was collapsing

and your eyelids were matching

and I was pulling out my teeth.

You're never going to see it again

and I'm never going to say a thing.