The way my father’s fingers
rise and fall with the grave
of a bobbing sun
as he crafts a pie crust
that will soon fall apart;

the singular purple stroke
dripping with pride
that she spends 257 breaths
dusting across the canvas;

your words,
expertly cut from sapphires
with subtle edges
that embed themselves in my skin
as you meticulously lay out
all the reasons we will not last
the same way you drape my dresses
across the polka-dot armchair
that bears witness in the corner of the room.

Everything so planned,
so precise,
that I cannot stop a surge of respect
from curling my toes
as I watch the doors
close
with me behind them.