The day you flew in perfect arcfrom your motorcycle was the same dayI broke the perfect formation of your womenat the railing, leaving behindyour grandmother and mother, to runand jump the fence.The stop watch hangingfrom my neck, suspended between gravityand momentum, swung its perfect pendulum.All our motion was brought to conclusionby your broken body at reston the ground.Your breath never roseto the oxygen placed on your faceand your heart never ralliedto the arms pressing your chest.You wore the perfect clothes:the ashy grey of death.At the hospital they said your failure to survivewas complete.Though I never sawthe neck you perfectly broke or your bodycleanly draped by a sheet, I did seeyour dead face bruising up at meand for lack of something to touch,I touched the stop watchwhich had not died.If any nurse or doctor had asked,I could have told, exactly,to the hundreths of seconds, how longit had been since I'd seen you alive.
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