Words collected on her nightstand like bones in a graveyard,
Waiting for a more suitable time to reassemble themselves into
The things she meant to say.
Would there be a more suitable time to breathe life into them?
Dry bones turned flesh, joints lashed together by elocution
Could he hear her then?
Once she was awakened by their rattling, as breezes stalked them in the night.
She fingered them under false pretenses.
Thinking it was a sign, she rolled toward him.
The bed was empty, her heart crumpled.
Bewildered, anticipation retreated, fathomless sorrow bled out of her.
She turned back to them, and in the abyss, its tenor grimaced.