Another self-suggestion

sputters out of her mouth

As she utters

the last syllables,

she watches his brow descend

like living room blinds

before supper

She waits for his "can't".

Its reception vexes

What she expects is

exactly what he delivers

He shakes his head

His closed eyes speak to her...  

how utterly ridiculous 

what a waste of time

 that'll never work

Another self-suggestion

sputters out of her mouth

like an engine

running out of gas

In the silences

what she realizes is

she can't pinpoint

when his "can't"

became her shan't