living with J.

in the blank, taciturn space within we both seek and search ever so quietly. we cannot have each other; the man or woman in the next room hear the dull thud of a falling heart, or the tired topple of hope crashing once again, or even the impossibly loud drop of a spilled tear.

in the rooms beside rooms, we both lie in wait in the dark for pain to go away. we wait for sleep. then we wait for the light.

in the rooms beside, we both know and in that knowing is the quiet, dignified silence of non-recognition when our eyes meet over tea in the morning.

we pretend obliviousness. what i don’t know, cannot remind him. what he does not know, he cannot care for.

this is how we live, he and i, in what is close to happiness.

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