I stood; a bit too quick.
Pain lanced through.
She saw the slight tick.
A hint of worry, I knew.
The wrench leaves marks,
Though I stood braced
Biting down the spasm’s arch
Setting a square face.
She carries prophesy enough to see.
She has wirespools enough of memory.
I will not add to these even if she had wanted.
We live better for things unsaid.