When it is all over, the ||

Abrupt | The broken | connection | Old | phone, hanging by its | cord | in a lit booth || “When they were last seen alive…” || Sometimes, stories go looking for them, but often | it is only silence and | a particular | twist in the void | a shape of nothing | in a shop | a faint trembling sensation | on the skin of your forearm | Glazing the whole | kit and caboodle | making it that | epic | window, your life || Truly, though, isn’t it | stumps of roses | the shattered fragments of | Monday and sunrise | the thread | you pick up and the | enigma of the | threads you | don’t sense, the | space in things | like one of those trains that stops at night | in a station, and the doors | open, but | no one gets on, and no one | gets off, and the train | waits?