The suit rests pressed
on the queen bed.
Dust blankets unread literature
crumbling on shelves.
No one noticed.
Someone played
Clare De Lune haphazardly-
fingers trembling across a
poorly tuned keyboard.
Someone shouted.
Someone laughed.
Someone opened a door.
Someone spoke his name.
Someone reached for him.

When you can’t see the light burning brighter than the sun — brighter than the glow of all that floats, fills and flaunts itself against the forbidden finite… antagonist.
Longing and laughter conflicted.
Decrescendo.