We stand there, eyes downcast and
an ocean between us.
His steaming breath draws in and out rapidly,
an endless sound that denotes his fury.
I'm seeing red,
the anger he births in me is unlike any I have
We are passion, flames that warm
on cold winter days
but can burn and erupt
to wildfire when strife
a barrier in our marital bonds.
The words that flew from his mouth
like a bird escaping a predator
cannot be pulled back and swallowed
to hide in the pits of his stomach once more,
as much as I wish I could unhear them.
We've cut each other to the core in
our fiery fury and now
a scorched, barren land lies silent between us.
The silence scares me more than anything.
Is that what our marriage has come to?
Is there really no more to say?
Suddenly, his gaze meets mine again.
"The gloves," he chokes out hoarsely.
We are almost a team again,
haphazardly rummaging through the spare closet
until we happen upon that
half-smushed, forgotten square box
tucked away in a corner.
There, amongst our old clothes
each of us places one soft, velvet glove upon
the others hand...
A bridge appears in the ocean between us,
and we shakily take the first steps to understanding.