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She talks to me with an optional honesty, and tastes deceit like it's some sort of delicacy. She holds composure as if it could hold her, and pick up where we were.
She gives no sign, and lies with her eyes closed; she says: "you'll see in time, so don't pretend that you won't".
She sits up slow, breathing in cautiously, as if to show that her logic will better me. I touch her shoulder, as if that could hold her in places we once were.
"I'm taking my time", she says with her eyes closed; "everyone speaks in rhymes, so don't pretend that you don't". And she sets her own pace now, her mind made up long ago.
But the closing door didn't mean anything before, and the creaking floor may bring what it brought before.