Friday, June 08, 2007

Aftermath III

Our eyes barely meet
As we pace to the door.
You're walking me,
Or perhaps I escort you,
The longest hall a third stranger,
Familiarizing itself with the echo of our footsteps.
We don't linger by the sofa
Nor the kitchen table,
Blushing silently under that newly laid shroud.

As I reach for the knob
I can feel you smile, just so,
And finally ask,
Quietly wavering in afterthought,
"And who are you?".

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