there sits an attic
atop of every house this street.
and while we sleep
the soundless footsteps
are the soundtrack of survival
timing is vital
when there's too much time left.
it's what comes away
when the beads from her necklace
roll across the floorboards of this room.
days go by
but we can't tell the morning
from the night.
we wait for cover,
for blizzard winds to white out the bodies,
the things we did.
but memories creep up
through the snow.
we'll never recover
from all of the others
on whose footprints we tread.