In Between

Now, the pillows are crumpled, 

sheets crushed at the foot of the bed, 

clothes scattered across the room; 

the mattress rests over the side of the frame, 

and we lay entwined in glorious silence
as she dreams of something else to do.

 
Her checkered flannel and denim

will soon be on again, 

and she will be off somewhere:

the salon, the supermarket, a girlfriend's sofa.

"Do you want to come?" she will ask, 

and I will decline without the sting of guilt
so present in the early days of our courtship
when she wore the shame of her father's absence
and I carried the burden of her self-reproach. 

Then I was arrogant enough to believe 

my love could heal her wounds, 

that form can be shaped from raw desire,

like willing a volcano not to erupt. 

Even when she bloodied my face, 

daring me to leave, the tremor in her eyes 

could not pierce my resolve.

Wait for the eyes to soften, I told myself,

and sure as the earth's crust heats and cools again,

they would.  

Hours, days later, after much shouting 

and tearful apology, the good times would return

and we would collide again on that old mattress.

We poured ourselves down through

the synthetic fibers and failing box springs,

then abandoned them with all we hoped to unmake

for another foolhardy revolt against

the mighty forces that divide man and woman.

Now, we operate in this in-between state.

The relationship is transactional, uncomplicated.

We don't make a mess of things.

While we wait for what's next

there is time for other pursuits.

There's time for silence.

For this.

**Illustration by Morgane Xenos