no one wins domestic wars

Oakland Jan14

His words struck softly against my skin,
This is where I took the architect.
After being dropped off at the top of the hill,
I tasted metal as his grey truck accelerated back to his real life.

When I got home, you danced for me
after presenting a 15-week plan for our future;
I noticed there was no time scheduled for compromises.

This is when I knew I had found the good side of a habit.

After reading your poem, written the moment when I asked him for his middle name,
I cried. I remembered that day the elevator stopped working and how long it was broken.

Beneath these domestic ceremonies,
minivans crush dry leaves into the dust we wipe off our TV.

Oakland, Jan14

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