Words spill out and fall to the floor, breaking the silence, shattering it like the simple wine glass cast from its spot after a meal gone cold.
Whole sonnets could dance between the sound of your sigh and our last good laugh, your fond hello, and frantic goodbye.
Words filled your sports bag and took up more space than the jeans you tossed in, after words crossed like a sword- those tips smarted, grazing soul flesh
And the rain collected in pools around the I’m sorry’s, the I was wrong, and the It Wont Happen Again dewy words tipped and dropped from the burgeoning petals after the spilt wine, and cold wet rain- and knowing eyes softened gazing at exposed skin, just at the nape of the neck- unsure if the cold had passed enough to let the daylight in.
‘We just don’t know how to talk to each other”
The last word on the subject served over coffee and warm scones
“Just shut up and pass the butter”