It’s offhand,
The comment
That first stills
Her heart
Then sends it
Tumbling
Her breath
Attempting traction
Attempting grip.

And he knows
She lies
When she answers
“Fine.”

She floods
Her skin
With intention,
“Be here.”
She wills
Herself
Back.
Backs away
From the lure
Of stories
That make
The hurt
Make sense.
(Stories
That make
The hurt.)
And his smell
Is familiar
And sweet.

She starts
Between toes
In the webbing,
Touching down,
Between
Stable
Moments,
Two fists
And last breaths
Before she unfolds,
Unpeels,
And tumbles into sleep.

At first
He didn’t
Know
How
His words
Cinched
Tight around
Her throat,
Extracted
Air
From her lungs
Slowly
Until
She was taut
And vacant.
But then
He learned
Words
As
Weapons
He found
He couldn’t
Help
But wield.