Swift

She blinked
and a thousand words sifted through her eyelashes
The windows to her soul
were actually barred
Letting only the occasional sheet of feeling
slip between the rods in a shielded palm

Her lips remained locked
the current of emotion would go no further
than the dam of sticks made of her misgiving
Hers was a quiet love
the gentle swish of the washing machine
His a surge
devouring and uplifting

A cotton string was all
that tied her to another
Finding comfort in warm and tousled bedding
But inside
a chimney swift
tapped on the glass
of the window to her soul