When we fight your lower lip pouts
like that baby picture hanging
in your mother’s house.
You not-quite-slam the door
and stomp to the barn.
(I should’ve said less)
I go to bed to escape the silence
that grows from inches
why won’t he come to bed?)
After midnight, you slide into our bed;
there is a cold-sheeted gap
between our turned backs.
I squeeze my eyes shut
and force regular breathing.
My cautious casual bump against you
meets with stone
and I draw back; reconstruct
In the morning, you reach for me
and I wiggle close,
sleeping snug in smiling silence.
Written from Adele’s prompt on Silence.