The Red Wall Clock

Somewhere between the two ticks
Of the second hand of the red wall clock
Half-cracked, towering over the bed room
I can still hear your breaths, intertwined
In mine. Shallow. Urgent. Passionate.

And I wait, patiently and watch the smoke
Rising in characteristic spirals over your food
Bow down, and disappear- it has gone cold.
Much like my patience- yet each night as I
Hear you walk stealthily upon the porch
I know where you're coming from.

I sense you cower in my presence, I feel
Your insides lash out in agony- Or are they mine?
For the one air we breathed in, now separate-
Desolate, almost. I smile, and light up the stove again
As you repeat how work is so stressful these days.

And each time, I sit in front of the mirror
I question again- And the tears always win the fight
With my heart. But when you walk in- I bury
Myself in your chest, and feel the pieces string
Perhaps together again. I have seen her.

And the red wall clock looks at me.
The cracks look like eerie little smiles.