He shouts –
and the air
goes straight
through her
lungs,
arrow
re-imagined
as a rose.

He whispers –
white snow
falling onto
trampled dirt,
and she knows
the tickle
of rising
goosebumps.

He cries –
the radio is
turned to
the station he
likes, and she
smiles because
the songs crack
like glass.

He leaves –
a post-it note
on the window
of her car:
“The problem
with this
is us.”
She lets it

peel away from
the window
on
the highway,
pave itself to
the street,
plastered
with tire tracks.