Grief Soaked Compromise
The music is now off.
Eyes that burn from dried saltwater,
no longer can look up.
Up at the ceiling that holds no light.
I scratch an overused tear duct
once, maybe twice.
The musk smell in the kitchen
floods into the bathroom,
heightens the awareness of temporary,
a man's tolerance for stupidity
mangled in with an aged attraction
for the one he loves.
Shelved meticulously behind the mirror
are dreams of grandeur inside tiny, orange capsules.
The immediate boost of energy
though decades old,
still placates to ideas of abrupt afternoon sun
and gravel beneath running feet.
Reality hits like a paperweight to the skull.
Unmoved for hours.
Blankets shrugged off to reveal an unshaven leg,
distancing itself further away from its twin.
Screaming into the void of white
means nothing if all artistic integrity
followed the blue dye down the drain.
"We should be nicer to each other" he whispers into a pillow.