Post-Post-Postmodern

She knows suddenly,
how the story ends:
on the pier after dark,
the benches and filtered
hand-rolled cigarettes
under the no-smoking sign.

She knows the words
before they roll off your tongue,
before your eyes
can even betray brain's glimmer
of betrayal:
"You said you loved me."
"You said, you loved me."
"I did."

No, she knows
how the story ends,
days, weeks, even, before it
comes:
"No, you needed somebody
to help you escape
a toxicity
a wasteland
and I was your lifeline
and you're welcome."

Yes, she knows the retort
towards her back
as she walks distance increasing:
"So did you."

And she'll give pause,
for the final note of
the swan song,
the great crescendo.
She'll consider:
"I never should've let you touch me."
and
"You meant nothing."
or
"She was right, this was a game, I win, you lose, goodbye."

She'll give pause for
the fleeting rests
quarter hald eighth note lies
and settle on four full beats of her heart:
"I don't know
what
I needed.
But
I am glad
you were there."

The cigarette stamped out
the toe of her boot
and the winter rain
dewing on the navy blue coat
you've never seen before;
smells like a life she knew,
a life you feel cheated
having never known.
Wrapped in the strength
of a sea-city's winter,
with the iron will of the lonely,
she's known how
this story ended
before you ever laid your eyes
on her blessed form.