The city skyline; a cardboard cut out
where port and river dawn picture-book bright;
glass-cut silence glinting towards sunrise.

This, the setting, then; this, the premise.

Hear heels click—once, twice, three times—staccato,
head hushing heavy with whirlwind echo,
fields of fingermarks wilting on your thighs.

This, your story, then? This, your witness?

Let the steam fog mirrors, obscure the welts;
your face a self-portrait of someone else,
a map of sleeplessness and alibis.

This. the ending, then. This, a stasis.

From midnight-strike keepsakes, moonshine yearnings,
bed to bed and daydream awakenings
to this: your deadbolts and double-locked guise

ever and after.