Small Feuds

Small feuds grew large
and became the agreement not to speak of certain things
weaving silence into every conversation.

 

Silence, grown into the cracks and ceiling, stifling;
Questions spoken with back turned and answered to windows,
Every word a sigh or lamentation while the clock winds down impossible hours.

 

Grown into days, months, years, their life,
Cold, tight, polite smiles and a fixed gaze into the middle distance.

 

Unspilled letters form crusts in the inkwell;
apologies blot pages
Under cloches, filtered sunlight checks unformed ambitions,
mottled fleshy hues;
Motes hang in the rays, descending...
and everywhere the stealth of dust fills corners. 

A stillborn gesture,
Dumb birds flee the morning, the crickets the night,
And the curtains whisper of better things.

 

Until they become finally quiet shadows that flicker in the corner of each others eye...