I kept collapsing.
Stapling lost years to the forehead
of my husband, who wanders alone
amongst curtains of flickering faces,

while I kill time, stacking toads.
Waiting for the kiss that will cyclone
my shoes into puddles of rubies
on the dining room floor.

Fast-forwarding to magnetism
that has not yet danced on celluloid,
he strangles me in future reels.