Every time I think we’re done, you continue speaking.

A toy in the pond greens.

Your failings become attractive.

They are catatonics.

They are hurdle-leapers.

In that bed and those boards, what does the B stand for?

The two sides of a lake?

For you then, because you’re closer to death.

What happens to us?

Your voice saying my words.

The water moving the sheets.

Our worries melting in water, becoming more water.

That’s how tired we are.

You said all.

I said bad.

All we say.