Rewriting the Script

I told you about the window,

how it shattered,

and the way the light splintered

on the floor,

like tiny accusations.

Your head tilted,

a slow, deliberate shake.

"No," you said, your voice

a flat stone skipping

across a pond I thought we shared.

"It didn't happen that way."

My own recollection,

a thing I held

firm, solid,

began to fray at the edges.

Your mouth, a thin line,

a dismissive flick of your wrist.

And the air grew cold,

a sudden draft

from a door I didn't know

was open.