the anger burns and the tears swell until they fall,
not because i need to do those things… but because i already do them. or did them. or just… well…
those things? we did. and we did well…
but here i am,
i’ve hung pictures where i thought they should go,
and i’ve leaned my shoulder into a bookshelf with barefeet and willed it to move into the next room.
and i want to pound my fist into the wall, because i don’t want to be here alone.
and my heart aches because we chose other dreams, and they’ve slipped right through the cracks in our hands…
and tonight, there’s dirty dishes… from tuesday?
a pile of sweaty, filthy little boy clothes in the hall,
a boy with strep asleep in my bed,
we don’t slam doors in this house, cade.
and we’re here.
and lord knows, i’m at fault, too. no finger pointing, no name calling here,
and i don’t really know what to make of it all.