We are treading water in the deep end of the silence
after the takeover of the pragmatic, the pressed-for-time
when all that's left
are these scraps on tabletops (surfaces no longer taboo)
and the cold grey seas that eat
at the shores of the heart.

(These are shoes I'll never fill
like the stories we didn't tell
the goodbyes we couldn't find the time to say.)

The sun sets again.
Our faces fade like moths into the twilight.