There seems a time when every pair
falls silent,
looking over their shoulders for the other
on evening walks down the street.

While one goes crazy, the other goes still--
A crazed child shaking a stick at the trees,
through the stark feeling of helplessness.

A velvet rope tied around the street corners
to mark where one or the other is allowed
it’s a vicious cycle--
a roundabout way to avoid confusion.

One holds a tongue between its teeth,
The other lets it flop on the table,
lapping up the crumbs hidden between the tiles.

Confide a secret between cold stone--
No one (but the two) knows the trouble it caused,
As they stare in opposite directions
across an inarticulate table of papier-mâché--
gutted to the core.