Was time to move they knew.
Nothing remained but the thrill
of razor-thin margins and
For now, it’s forced facades
with ill-fitted neighbors
and crooked smiles.
Until tomorrow, Friday, when
self-inflicted flight occurs.
No relationships, minus
those adopted and short-lived.
Winters too warm;
no familial involvement.
She. A peerless presence in that house.
(Wasn’t it recently long-time empty?)
Her hair style perfect.
Expensively attired, impeccable,
though not many will see,
or sniff her peculiar perfume
She attracts the energy of the moon.
Collects and controls strange things.
Though inside, no boundaries restrain.
Reaching beyond her ceiling, cathedral;
as it witnesses an unholy mass of two.
He. Camouflaged in his lawn,
trimming an area he trimmed
Appearing in front of you
as you hurriedly walk past.
His each breath breathes your control.
Silver-tongued. Disarmingly persuasive.
Strategic eyeglasses worsening
his odd stare, diffusing intent.
There’s something askew, and
better to not have met them.
Thankfully, their near-memories’ vaporous,
already faded and forgotten.
For us, an uneasy feel lingers, however.
But today is Friday;
the morrow has arrived.
When they quickly, leave another place.
Time to move (on).