She came home, Spoke not a word.
Rather, communicated her anger in subtle glances from the chipped brim of her cup.
He gazed, watched her every movement with a sort of urgency.
He spoke.
She ignored.
The words, they slipped like dusty fragments falling from a glass pane.
She drew the curtains.
He walked off.
She stayed, still focusing on the battered cup.
She got lost,
In the thoughts;
In the sounds.
The humming,
The drumming,
The distress.
He loved her.
That's what he said.
She loved him.
That's what she thought.
Yet although,
Despite the promises and denial,
She cane to the stunning realization that it was all a myth.
He came back,
His hands full of distress,
His heart full of pain.
She watched him.
He sighed,
And picked at the pieces of lint nesting on his jacket.
She looked at him again, unsure of what his purpose was.
Or why he was here.
His mouth widened,
His stained teeth opening a portal into his mind.
The air began to shutter,
She saw every word,
Heard ever second of silence.
Oh shame,
Oh darling,
Oh damn.
He stood,
She watched.
He left,
Without saying a word,
Instead communicating his defeat in bone chilling narratives brought on by lust.
She stayed,
In her chair,
Still focused on the battered cup.
