He quietly said into the dark room, into the straining night,
You’re a house, not a home.
The dying died a little more—
parched sunflower knocked sideways,
bent, hastening the water loss. Shortly,
his breath heavied and he twitched in some dream.
You’re a house, not a home
swallowed the positive space of atoms
until she shrank, flattened, and,
sucked inside out by the words,
there was a tiny popping sound as she broke
into little black galaxies which drifted apart, lazy repelled magnets.