strung between us is the obvious suspended because, as you sit with your chin leaning onto your palms, you change directions sans transitions as though nothing is happening and all is static. it’s a game; a frustrating game and the rules unknown to me. the sun sinks, concealing its rays, and I wonder for a moment if you are not the sun controlling shadows and etching melancholy on bodies with your disappearance. the evening grows cold and the day dies. the familiar obviousness--silently luring above—widens the distance between us, turning us into strangers.