Blue

The shutters shake their fists at the night air, blue in the face, and the sky shakes its fist too. The silence though,

He lowered himself across the room,

And exhales as though he knows something that I do not.

Pulling up a chair,

He stretches his legs beneath the table so we might stare out at the doubt of settling dust that trails in your lack of goodbyes and angry door slamming crescendo

In comfort.

We exchange nervous glances in the dark.

The moonlight, a candle and curtains

Dancing upon the fists of strangers before us.