she painted pictures of the skyline
while he made music in the darkest of rooms
a million miles of floor stood between them
and it was parquet, the kind that you can
only lose yourself in on hallucinogens.
he told her that he knew.
but he didn’t.


and the silence was quiet, more quiet then the quietest of rooms,
oh he could finger that silence like it was
something tangible between them.

something round and hard like the
coffee table in the middle of the
living room with its cups and spoons
from last nights dinner and
the circles of coffee stains
she was like those,
and he told her that he knew.