Eventually, silence became a mistress
in our house.
I’d look at my hands while he’d look towards
the door.
Aside from little snippets like, “Will you be home for dinner?”
and the bands on our fingers,
we’d be separate paintings within our four walls,
I — on a white couch — and he —
miles away, welcoming summer.
At the end of our rope,
we found conversation a luxury.
And if you asked when we started
passing by each other
and sitting together became just formality, I’ll not say.
Perhaps, as days passed and I got to know myself more,
or barely a day later, when I was already looking towards the next big thing.
This is not to say I never loved…
Loving, loving is what we were chasing.
That Gut Wrenching Poetry 