I ask again “Is it too late?”
She looks at me
but she’s not looking at me.
Eyes, swollen levees,
hold back the floods.
Dark circles frame dewy lashes,
sleep a long forgotten luxury.
Tremors on her lips
tell me she’s in aftershock.
Mouth open,
she doesn’t speak.
Lungs, clenched tight,
reach for air
Hands, once inviting,
become closed fists
I lay a trail,
crumbs of comfort.
She doesn’t pick up.
I talk of plans,
the future
but none of us is listening.
I ask again,
“Tell me, is it too late?”
She doesn’t answer.
She doesn’t need to.
