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Lean and lanky
she lays down with ease beside him.
They both converse in small talk, mumbles, nothingness.
He asks her when did it become so hard.
As if hard meant that love
didn't exist, that the emptiness of the house
is unbearable, that there is no way she
can scrub the dirt and grime of his feet
from those white cotton sheets.
And all she does is stare back with
glossy eyes, only able to answer in
a way he doesn't understand because
she doesn't know the answer.
Maybe there isn't an answer.
No answer to justify their weekly
meetings filled with planned gestures like
how to lay together, how when the
third blade of the fan spins twice
it is safe to talk, like how his feet
are always pointed off to the side
and hers tucked securely to her chest
secluded safely under sheets.
Maybe it was always hard and he is now
only able to see it.
Because after all the alcoholic haze
has cleared from his mind, he
sees that she is only a woman.
A woman who never fit his expectations.
III. Noah observed all
of this through the keyhole
of his parents door. It was a good night.
Frequently, their frustration fit snuggly in the hourglass frame
but that didn't matter.
They thought if doors were closed then he wouldn't hear, wouldn't know.
They thought he could easily dodge the
deep, dreary depression they were experiencing.
But that's kind of hard when walls are not soundproof.