Our silence lasts for miles,
tangled around my ankles and throat and
stretching down the highway to end at your
computer screen. I like the way it tastes,
like bitter chamomile and rust.
from morning to dusk and drink too
much coffee and watch the Bruins pound
the Jets and forget that once upon a time,
we said we'd get married.
Sometimes our fingertips remember the tapping of keys
on late nights, our poetry and faith streaming between
our eyes in rivers of need, and we
cave inside. Just a little, though.
Mostly we sleep beneath the fluorescent lights
of God and sex and grocery shopping,
and we pretend we don't see
the misty-eyed couples
hanging around park benches.
We're good at surviving like this.