The lamp catches his profile β
tired eyes, lips set in that careless half-smile he uses when he knows sheβs watching him.
He talks about nothing.
The weather.
Tomorrow’s plans that they both know won’t come to fruition.
But every word tilts, just slightly,
and she feels the weight of what he doesnβt say.
He says she worries too much.
She says he listens too little.
She wants to hold his face in her hands,
to press her forehead to his and beg him
to stay whole,
to stay here.
But her voice stays caught in her throat,
because he hates pity
and she loves him too much to call it that.
He lays his head on her lap, she pretends not to worry about the liquor on his breath.
She brushes the hair from his forehead,
as if love alone
could rinse the bitterness from his tongue.
Later, in the stillness,
she traces the shape of his shoulder in the dark
like memorizing a ghost.
πππππππππππ€ 