The shrug of one shoulder and a raised eyebrow
is her answer to my once-upon-a-question,
rehearsed and rehashed in the quiet of doubt,
hammered into satisfactory readiness, cherished.  

Encircled in that quavering question is the shape
of our yesterday and the scent of my long-ago-past.  

Her spoken word would be my saving grace,
but this message in a gesture strikes me down.  

Unnamed plans, robbed of oxygen, gasp an end.