You opened your mouth 

and out came the sound of glass shattering

I stood up and walked slowly, deliberately, away from you,
glass popping and crackling 

under bare feet

I had wandered for miles on oven-hot asphalt

and you had my shoes

and you were walking backwards

My legs followed your legs

in intimate tangoes

your right leg back

my left leg forward

we danced for years 

in this way

Until you opened your mouth

and out came the sound of glass shattering

And at that moment

I stepped back

to notice faint strings rising

from your hands and knees

and you were still walking backwards:

we were two magnets repelling

though still gracefully in sync

The strings' paddles shifting

in the manicured grips

of two strange and grinning mothers

I could have laughed--

maybe I did--

but it was a bitter laugh

emitting from a sneer

while I did not even limp

as the glass rose through

my feet

and into my bones