De-constructing

His breakfast smells like ripe tomatoes

and promises,

pledged in youth and romance,

a starter home, a child or two,

a job with promotions and perks,

naive happiness.



We are older, each creak and crack

in the house has a name,

unlike our shadow children.

He works so hard,

by end of day

face without color, dragging

heavy-footed over the threshold,

listlessness engraved into his bones.

Desire distills into an uneasy

companionship,

his hand restive in mine,

his shoulder sharp,

I do not hear the word love,

only silence 

and the foundation settling.