the time she fades,
interrogation an overhead light
to say goodnight,
close to asking
for an end.
It passes unobtrusively,
brushing her initials,
dreamy letters on an
unmade bed.
I can tell from the sounds
that it isn't her,
locked footsteps,
a diary of searching embossed
as collected evidence.
Do you have to take
my exchange?
Say anything into the camera.
I don't know where
the key is.
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