They decorated it with photo frames; small motifs of spent occasions
chequered about, stood up, laid down in polka, rust, wood and plastic.
There was a large bed, there, for her to set her things down onto black & white
cotton sheets. Lucid mornings, leaves outside were shadow puppets in the reel,
elegant dancers on primrose wall. Divisive mornings, slack arrest with curtains drew.
Sunday legs walk in-line on the Promenade; his fingers ascend
her Kirby-grip embrace, pause for digital square to freeze them in stop-caught smiles.
Gloved hands slap. Port lips kiss. Vanilla-musk and rose liquorice he bought
adds scent to disowning notions of a couple of kids, a mortgage, a car, a dog.
She goes along with his plans for too long, they say in passing. She waits to find
the right time. Once safe, she sets out with a quiet beacon under her arm.