Coda || Denouement
Uncial; the years culminating,
a Herculean effort to divorce
oneself from it,

walked out, texted you
right away, and later
a phone call,

you said, "do me

a favor—sleep in until

at least 4:30 tomorrow

morning…" and I laughed,
ice cream tongue, the cut
on my toe, thin as a stand
of hair, and your

voice, luxurious, a burnt
light in the haunting dark,

the CODA slips across the
screen, ashy, ancient as a black
and white film, the two of us
posed as any starlet and her
bloke,

just stolen car rides in late spring
now, just denouement, scratchy eyes,
complexion swollen from hours of
crying, and the promise of a
9:00 o'clock email,

the delight
of making the right
decision.