1

He made his move.
Sliding the glass onto the table,
Leaving traces in circles to be.
Irregular, matching black rules;
Each second, one inch farther from me.
I crumbled away, became a line
Before he had words in mind, I grew
And left my nest, breathing soft waters
Imagining my world anew.
Before I left him notes, I said
I would be nothing but for my head.
My fame arised in shouty gems
That had no name, no wise defence.
His joy was short; it seemed so well,
More like ice-cream, to the sun's own will.
His bending scars left the world in liquids
On their own two feet, or maybe there were more.