They fall silently, beautiful as snow
we did not press with our boot prints,
some days rooms are landscape, paled
with possibility – cocoons of words
that lived in our chests but did not fly
to our lips. The scent of rose hip,
sour milk, sharpened knives,
breathes our could-haves to a half life,
sure as fibres in sunlight screening
a movie of the chair where a cat
fell asleep. Those things we did not
say float above us, settle like dust
marking the spot where a gold ring
sat on the shelf, a small frame
with a picture inside of who we almost
were, we swiftly, swiftly, wipe away.