Manners.

I'll apply my ears to reverb,
slipping every fifth verb a noun;
to hear your final strains pull away,
there's darkness on the edge of town.

In reprisal, I'd then feel torn down,
sorrow in glimpses you arranged,
for I waited, witnessing revision,
harboring high hopes of revenge.

But you'd disremember consequence,
stabbing one right up these threads;
bethinking while sashaying out,
undressing their swiveling heads.

For one step small, snail's pace,
retracing - insouciant, muted speed;
rancor would seek recrimination soon,
scraping off the warmth you need.

Now, I can't keep from telling all,
similar whispers play hard to come;
but you broke those unwritten words,
unequal with the tunes you hummed.