Staring at the ceiling,
another writer on the pillow adjacent
Why couldn’t I have married a fucking physicist?
Late at night, towards the end,
we’ll leave each other
loveless
notes on the refrigerator.
Until, one day,
I’ll grab my toothbrush
drawer full of clothes
and that pungent green felt tipped marker
writing
while breathing it’s magic deep
“Were thru”
without so much a thought as to the grammatical crime
I’ll be committing
in her modern day Third Reich.
Lit, poorly
in the room that used to be “our kitchen”
deciding whether or not to
punctuate
my refrigerator epic of
fuck-u-were-thru.
She’ll burst in the door.
a bottle of Cabernet in her hands
“I got the job”
Callously
I’ll swipe away the words
I was so ready to commit to
just 5 minutes earlier
I’ll have to face the Minister of Propaganda
as to why I held my every earthly possession
in my hands
and am staring blankly at the fridge.
