The face of a fan turns here to there in the bedroom's dark. Beneath just a sheet from time to time their same knees touch, and nothing more. They've come apart from what they knew, or thought, for all those years. Lately in daylight she traces a narrative of containment, changes the subject, stipulates needs. He noodles piano keys, answers his phone, acquiesces.
Nights grow huge with history and the swell of unspent language.
He knows it, feels it there, but doesn't dare take in the scent of its cruel, crucial dream. The face of the fan turns here to there in their dark room while he and she breathe slowly in and out, take comfort in the things they know from memory, while all the while a faint rhythm still locked in the pulse suggests a time, a turn, a tune, some long irretrievable music they once had almost by heart. All rights reserved. Please do not reproduce without permission.