The emotional debris has been piling up for the past five years:
Hoarders of passive aggressive complacency.

We are masters of dodging the mountains of emptiness filling this house:
In the space between us on the dance floor during that single dance,
Of not being able to breathe in the miles between us as we sleep.
Boxes of “I need…” and “I want…” are taped shut, stacked to the ceiling,
Decaying from the looseness of your grip and lightness in your touch,
The coolness of your kiss and the way your eyes no longer see me.

We’re far too gone for an intervention, babe.
Buried in words unsaid and feelings unfelt.
I’d like to strike a match and watch it all burn,
These remnants finally giving off some penetrable warmth.

We divide the boxes.
I leave one marked “blame” for you;
You give one marked “contempt” to me.
We sign on the permanent line of foreclosure,
A scar to remind us how crushing the silence can be.

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