There's Trouble On Tromaville

Eyes adrift (like fifteen times before),
rapidly recalling the chalk outlines of the murder scene.
Blurring the lines of existence.
Fixated upon like fifteen times before.
I saw him seconds before the moment.
Displacement of context.
"Oh, what a tranquil night this is."
She whispers into his ear, "it's too bad you turned into a phantom."
Fractions of moments captured in the frame of hindsight.
Brief is tranquility as my thorax glides on friction.
It's too bad. (As he fades into obscurity.)