I heard the subway pouring out of your mouth.

I thought, maybe, it was an early-morning thing, letting sleep

spill from your body onto the week-worn floor.

I didn’t ask you to reveal this to me, I cling to

the milky curtain that lets you stay a hanging portrait.

Now I see the clear lines I was resisting,

the straight shot towards the bustle of people leaving,

the procession of feet: everybody looks at them,

the last way to understand someone before a formal introduction.

But you have ripped yourself from my story with fish-mouthed indignity.

Feel this—the gentle lurch of the car stopping

and the rustle of legs rearranging themselves.

These rituals have the slow charm of a hypnotist,

weaving and strong. The proper thing is to follow them:

the doors agree, slide open heavily as if yawning.