What had he done on such

bright, sunny morning. What

thing had set you off. Already,

from awakening the hot-tea

he brought to your bedside,

he could tell something

not right. A darkness in your eyes.

Rimmed amber with surprise.

So he took the dumb and dull

but safe road like any husband

and chose instead to let it go and

speak of small talk, carefully

choosing each syllable.

His performance was flawless

until she asked, “What will

you do today/” Heknowing

he could not avoid seeing her,

that is, this other

of whom really,

she was asking. All night,

she had dreamt of the two.

Some simple office romance

he’d long forget if only she’d

let it.

Yet it sticks in the heart.

Stops in the throat. A bitter

pill that you wish would kill.

It will not. You will live.

Live like anyone, but not quite.

Perhaps he’d taken some

pleasure in a flash, the site

of her tanned thigh, her darker

eye, blackness. The other

caught the whiff and

then it came down,

her immaculate grief and

transcendental tears

wetting her cheeks .

If in a love so great

such a thing is possible

then she will have none.

Not the tea, nor the kiss,

nor the conversations, nor gifts,

nor the walks on the beach,

nor the way she needs now

now to be held.

She needs to know that he loves her;

He needs her to know that he loves her.

She needs him to want only her,

this he cannot give and desire

for another and love for the other

they do not coexist in her world.

They are oil and water mixing

a slick collision moment before

the splitting and the halves

before the clear line is formed

if they hated being next to

each other that much.