Tuesday, June 7, 2016

No Getting It

The weight of her eyes
was something to marvel.
They were awe inspiring and
simultaneously  terrifying.
A simmering cauldron.

“What’s wrong,” he asked.
“Nothing,” she’d reply.
“Are you sure? You look
unhappy, or sad, or something,” he’d say.
“I’m fine,” she’d reply.

Her eyes were teary but
icy, stony, marbled.
“I said I’m fine,” she’d mutter.
“Oh, I didn’t ask. I took your
word for it,” he’d say.

“You’re a jerk,” she’d blurt.
He’d stand there in confused
silence wondering where the
hell this came from. Where her
love went so quickly.

“Baby, I did ask before, if you’re
alright,” he’d stammer.
“I said I’m fine. But you’re a jerk,”
she’d say.
“I don’t understand,” he’d say.

“Of course you don’t. You never
understand. You’re a blockhead,”
she’d accuse.
He stands there, arms out at his sides,
a perpetual shrug across his shoulders.

“I’m going to go I think,” he’d say and
gather his jacket and keys.
“Fine. Good,” she’d say and fold her
arms across her chest and slip
into the depths of the couch.

Her eyes melt as he leaves.
Last night’s make-up
streaming down her cheeks.
She didn’t get that he didn’t
get it.

He didn’t get why she wouldn’t
get it. She didn’t get why he didn’t
get that there was no getting it.
He walked to his car wondering if
he should go back.

She hoped he would,
but would never say it.
She opened a magazine from the table
to a celebrity wedding. She wiped the
sorrow from the corners of her eyes. 

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