speak to each other. A fat mound of hurt
and fear wriggled between them, a dying
demon.
Let the winds blow it away, let time
take it from us. It is unnatural here. This
land of love.
He still made her a sandwich. Knock twice
on the bedroom door.
She still put water for two in the kettle. The
soft whistle pulls him near.
And yet they both turned their heads
upwards when rain started licking the roof.
Cleanse us.
So when lightning struck, she went to the couch
and climbed on top of him.
The hurt was all alone, in the corner.
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