At the heart of our silence, is a loud
argument- fiercely orange- I fear its
touch. And you never say anything, making
it more intense.
You looks are daggers- my fingers
bear the scars- blood winding up to the ceiling
in spirals of smoke.
Every night, I sit there, absolutely still-
hoping you will not notice me, and
you, drinking your coffee, the tinkle of
your cup and saucer pouring
on me like molten wax.
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