in unfinished books,
in stained clothes strewn across the bed,
in transatlantic anger,
in forgotten sunday calls,
in half-full bottles of pineapple liquor,
in aimless night drives,
in pointed tones,
in pointed fingers,
in years worth of paint lifted clean off
to reveal rotting wood beneath,
in sickness and in health,
in heavy words weighing
in at nothing at all,
in sickness and in more sickness,
in shame of being made a fool of,
in too deep for too long,
in those far more beautiful than i could ever dream of being,
in reading
in between the lines,
in retribution,
inside work,
instead of compromise,
in the things we broke together.
in pieces that no longer fit,
in peace talks that no longer fix,
in passing evening breeze carrying yesterday’s laughter
in shared joy, no matter how brief.