it seemed
that you could

sense me

like a ship
passing in the night.

the lights

in the windows
of your house

flickering

each time i pass.

you had nothing left to say

except a soft illusion

to the threat of further

violence.

i began an etymology

of fire

and suddenly incinerated

everything

i said.

the teeth at the back
of your mouth

soft like the fruit
of ancient trees

my heart beats at
45
rotations per minute.

the rooms in your house
are continents expanding

throes of oceanic drift

plates shifting
in tectonic patterns.

all the celluloid
had caught on fire

by the time
we made it out
of the room.

there are some
pixels
that will never
project

like century-old
mirrors
that will not
reflect.