Across the days there would be ways in which to fade out in the crowd Question of chance, or maybe of choice, or maybe just a state of mind For a while She'd put up with it Then, at night, It would suddenly hit She was the one who wouldn't speak when she was listening to him She was the one who wouldn't breath unless she went away and screamed On the bus The shaking of strings On her mind The sound of the things That would undermine What was on his mind That would undermine The impending demise That's hanging over him Cold papercuts, no windowsills, and the delusions of space The crack of time becomes a smell, and then a scent, and then no trace She's not home There's no home at all She's not old She's not old enough But still she's expecting At times unrelentingly To break her chord