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What about the first two years
of tangled sheets, smiling over
morning coffee as the eggs sizzled
in the frying pan? Briefcase left by
the front door for the weekend.
Love letters written with red ink
left on the counter. Afterwards
my tongue tasted like envelope glue.
What about the next sixteen years?
My arms folded across your lap, eyes
glazed over the television screen
until the sky turned a steel blue.
Carrying your sleeping body into bed,
wrapping the blue sheets like a cocoon.
It spread to our hearts like slow fire
before being extinguished by
the weight of our own worlds.
They say they knew the marriage
was a mistake because they weren't
there until the glass shattered on
the floor and the pieces had to be
picked up. They didn't know we were
simply coming to the end of our triumph.