Could not describe
the flow of hands
on her skin,
his cave kisses, talking lips.

Couldn’t excite
neighbors with talk—
yellow leaves finding ground,
March’s themed snow,
slammed doors.

The house spoke for her,
spun its silence like
drifted mote through
cracked windows.

And when it was finished,
she could never,
not ever beg sympathy
from the walls,
who had turned
their faces to empty floors.