one larger than her neighbors back yard.
he hung his own fabrics on the clothes line which was perched a few feet away from his back door.
and although living alone,
he felt so loved by every blade of grass under his hanging garments.
but as she watched him hang each shirt and stolen pair os socks,staring at him as he clutched the sweater his wife used to wear,
smelling the fabric as it absorbed his anguish,
she realized that although living in a house full of other bodies whose stories were told under skies full of lightening bugs and in rooms cold with the stench of truth,
she felt so alone.
as if each beating heart sitting next to her at the dinner table didn't mean a thing.
the hands that passed her the salt and poured her glass of chardonnay,
weren't anything but invisible.
but with time,
rolling clocks, and numbers passing,
she slowly started taking notice to the smiles that were thrown at her while she so graciously taught her fingers to dance across black and white keys,
she saw the fingers that ran through her hair.
so influential, so thought provoking.
she saw them just as she saw him, her neighbor.
in his back yard, hanging his dead wife's sweater.
it finally came to her,
her mountainous defeat.
