"I give up", she says
In that exemplary tone,
Halfway between sadness
And grievance.

"It just won't sound
The way I want it
To sound, even after
All this effort".

She stands and fishes
For her worn shoes,
Stamping her feet
Into the open mouths.

Bending to tie her laces
In her unusual fashion,
She becomes aware of
A great pressure.

With something like
An Orlean storm
Pressing down upon her,
She misses the loop.

"I don't suppose you
Could ever understand
The way I feel now,
Or will feel tomorrow."

Gathering strength in
These foreign words,
She rises up
From her knee.

Secure now, she turns
To face the ashen door.
"Will you always be
What I want you to be?”

His eyes follow her
Hand upon the latch.
One small effort
And then she is gone.