Wait, before you go
turning my front steps into a year
(or you merge into another atmosphere)
tell me why your hands are shaking
and I'll explain my stutter.
It's only fair, right?
We trade an eye for an eye,
a few hours for a night.
That's how I get along, anyways
by tying my shoes in all the wrong places.
But you are the perfect knot,
unraveling out my door, and
treading those steps like so many before.
Casually, as if this isn't some renegade ending
with no plot line worth the trouble of mending.
