Somewhere outside
Lags a
man
his new shoes are
shined meekly,
he carries a box
in his hands.
And somewhere
Inside
There is she
Getting ready for the sleep ahead.
He sharpens his tongue and lingers there
Fully content on her image.
There is no loneliness here,
No
Signs
That it could all just decay.
No signs they were built of dirt,
The merest high material.
No signs they decay as well as leaves
Do in autumn-time.
And he
Always seems to only leave.
Her skin is tightened with pallor
Her fingers rest nobly,
Alone.
Her shoes are kicked off her feet. They sit, unkempt, on the ground.
He is a visiting
Vampire,
A trader on a summer cruise.
She is the
Used
Remnants of the box

but a ghost's shadow.