Les Chansons d'Amour

We tip-toed through the shadow
of yesterday's morning,
with scars, only visible
in the glare of certain lights,
underneath the skin.

We turned our faces into syllables
and counted out the beats,
watched the wolfram thread its signal
round the four walls of the room,
and played a game to see which one of us
could sit and stay quiet the loudest.

She said she couldn't read my smile,
it wasn't written on my face.

We closed our eyes.
We made love.
We listened to Death from Above.