One, two, three.
Rollercoaster.
Headlong.
Questions to be answered.
Even asked of you.
Like old places, graying at the edges
Like sunken powerlines
Sinkhole yawning outward.
Lovely dried petals stroke my cheek and try to comfort my heaving.
Even the rug sighs in pity.
Nothing alarms or even ticks.
A light clatter in the hallway is less distracting than it should be.
Hyperfocus trained on the dusty page in my hand,
I wait.
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