You’ve been scrubbing
last night’s uncomfortable
dinner table silence
off our dishes
for an hour.
Your yellow gloves
sing beneath the sunset,
fractured by a windowpane,
fractured by abandoned
cobwebs. It is
dusk, and the air
creaks, pregnant and stiff
with the ghosts
of words that never
passed our lips.

(You have new
callouses the
next morning, and your
nails are freshly
chipped. I
am sorry.)


Posted on March 13th at 9:25 PM
Tagged as: poetry. spilled ink. creative writing. poem. writing. lit. stuff. Bleh.
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