Promises spread out fine and slim, its no surprise we won't look back. We have done this before and when the night falls over our redundancies, it was our choices which we made. We own the gray sheath as we do the white- When we slide metallic like into the tomb we know we placed ourselves there. Though we remain stiff, as if.... But through the window of our silent bliss in the bed we spread, we will watch motionless as they search our pantry, some smug in the knowing the latch will have locked our secrets long away. Are we safe in our awakening to dark rivers of moss and perfectly dank exchanges? They surely will not pry the keys from whitened fingers, while our breath thins and lifts above their view. Gone, and all the while we knelt before the leaving, thinking, really believing we had stripped ourselves of traces in our sin.