The indifference cuts the deepest.
Anger would be as salve
to my heart’s wounds,
for it would carry
passion from your own heart.
There is no sustenance in
this empty existence we have created.
Our emotionless shell of a life
echoes with veteran vestiges
of voices once coupled.
In the quiet of the long, vacuous night
I struggle with vague attempts
to understand, justify, excuse,
hoping to convince myself
nothing has changed
but the wallpaper in the kitchen.
My pretense at normalcy
capitulates when the
morning sun reveals
more than the bedroom’s shadows,
and I am forced to
begin another day with you ...
alone.