This is not about
honing your heart’s survival instincts.
Not about brimstone, lip-numbing kisses
or sheets constantly shifting shape.
This is about the eyes of a wife
watch the twilight door open and
see a husband and not a lover.
This is about that compromise.
About practiced devotion.
The urge to domesticate passion.
Eyes of the wife falls from
the door to the fingers of her hand.
It’s been a lonely day.
