After Deadline, Pages

I turned pages so you wouldn’t hear me break.
I let the book be weather.
Wind lived in paper, thunder in spine.
I folded myself between chapters.
Dog-ears hid the tremor in my hands.
Your coffee cooled beside my wrist.
The jukebox lied; your laugh jammed the slot.
Paper cut like truth.
I borrowed a voice, left one comma ajar.
Plot served as alibi.
Each line was a door I closed.
I said rain, and you believed me.
Inside, already confetti.
Neon bled across a chipped cup.
When I closed it, the room listened.
My mouth was a stuck drawer; ink loosened it.
Reading was bandage and blade.
Tonight I filed the column on the blackout.
The city’s pulse stuttered; my hands kept underlining.
Tomorrow, I will underline the exit.
This is how I survived you.
I told back.

--Vera