Moments, these days, wait too long. The stultifying way time shatters. Leaves memories like spies. To shift the then sound of the phone cord or the steeping of tea or the touch of my skin on your skin that drives days dark. That find me, at my very best, reproachable. I try to hold onto your perfect almond eyes. The pitch of your laughter in cold dark rooms. But why does everything always shift? Until you are spider's legs and butterfly wings. Broken promises. And plaster dolls with real-fucking-pucker-lipped-baby faces. And I. And I am one divine hammer.