Empathy Gloves

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

ever known.

We are passion, flames that warm

on cold winter days

but can burn and erupt

to wildfire when strife

presents itself,

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

and photobooks,

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.