Sure

Keys clicking away in the dead of the night,

Opening and closing of offices

boxes full of trash, emptied, one-by-one

e-mails read and pushed aside with a left

index finger

pointing, always pointing

right back at us as we point away

“it was him. no really.  It wasn’t me.”

but it was always us, hiding away from

the turning of locks

of hair, of keys

to hearts, to shackles

binding us to the choices we never knew

we were making

or breaking ourselves, with every action

every smile, every heartbeat, every breath

but we were.

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