The final chapter of our union
tells of bone deep chagrin—
the dumb utter of
‘I feel statements’
plays itself like a mantra,
useless invocations found
in the crumpled leaflets
from the therapist’s office.
The pointed questions
from our guilty mouths
forces a sober thought through;
we felt the cold walk in
but we never felt the warmth walk out.
The silent stare between us
measures the immeasurable,
a gulf of indifference grows-
it’s time to close dead eyes,
and move on from this grave.
© Nancy Botta, 2019
Rusted Honey 