where his facial hair scratches my forehead
is where our simple affair retreats - to quiet -
to retract the last sentence
is where our complications boil
and we pour them out over tea leaves
and fine white sugar
our trademark argument -
maybe he is always right
and maybe i do overreact -
but rewarded by our simplicities
and content for store-bought pizza
and cheap tea in mugs i bought
from an imaginary mountain-side village
where our heads rest on each other's shoulders
to watch the sun set through the reflection
of our picture window -
staring east outside to keep the wind at our backs -
rewards are particles and absences of light
until my fingers get cold because my tea is gone
and i want to forgive him with my hands
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