The sun sets and rises on our resentment, and there are sheets
of ice between us and not enough blanket to cover our limbs,
spent and sullen. No breakfast today, just coffee—black,
strong—and silence served on a chipped dish. (We try not
to mind the mess in the sink, the broken saucers and shards
of glass hastily swept up before they can cut through soles.)
It is a contest on who can look away longer, but beyond our
own faces there is not much to see in this place. I want to
tell you about the dream I had, the spinning rooms and the
windows opening up to reveal red leaves and blue-stained
petals falling from the sky, a strange bouquet shedding parts.
I want to tell you that your hair is sticking out all funny, that
there are angry pillow marks on your otherwise smooth cheek.
I want to tell you that maybe we should take a walk, breathe
in the flecked clouds and scattered puddles. Sooner or later
one of us will have to speak, and though I never want to
be the first, maybe today I will. Fine. I want to tell you
that I understand things won’t always be clear. Right. That
sometimes the walls will be delicate and the corners will be
sharp and the floors will strain under our weight. Good.
I want to tell you that in the middle of the night it is hard
to be forgiving, but in the morning it is so much harder
not to be.