Empty angry words
and doors slammed silently
and then cold and alone and mad.
Where are the words?
What is the argument?
Futile, like tire studs on a summer road.
That gritting gnawing sound,
Holding on for dear life
When life is no longer dear.
Tearing up by bits that which they hold so close.
The thin line between need and not
So quickly crossed.
The thin line between security and destruction.
A thin line of sound.
Listen for it.