quiet

Standing at the sink, cigarette burning past the edge of the counter into the veneer, you hide in the silence of running water. I used to know the braille of your your back now I wonder what you see out that dark window, what do you reach for in the reflection. I don't know why I still sit here. The vinyl of the dinette chair sticks as the old habit of prayer. The empty sound of the ice rustling, clicking in the absence of whiskey. I can't breathe the air between us, my lungs hardened with silence, all the things I will no longer say settling into place. I will not put my hand on the small of your back, familiarity feels wrong and the knives in the sink discourage startling you. Not that I mind the violence, stagnant blood needs to be changed. But I am stuck in this chair, unable to pour another drink to quiet these prayers





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