The white-washed room
and falls away
to the smell of springtime.
the whispered words froth out,
dripping across the floor
as I choke on air. "It's like--
a spring girl in a field of jasmine
running and tripping and running again,
or a song your mother used to sing
when she washed the dishes by hand
while father push-mowed the lawn
and the air tasted like grass and love,
or the reverberations of wind-up watches
like the one your grandfather had
and would let you press your face against
while he slowly, slowly sent the hands clicking,
or like, or like..."
And I'm drowning
with all the air pouring into my lungs,
cutting off the bubbling syllables.
She sits there, all cool smiles
and pseudo-concerned questions,
"How does that make you feel?"
while I asphyxiate.