The Complexities of Marriage

I’ll kiss the corner

of your mouth because your

split lip bleeds

from the dry summer air,

and I’ll remind

you that sleeping

with a fan on your face

makes it worse.

You’ll complain

about the sun in your

eyes and buy curtains

that consume light,

keeping you in bed

until the afternoon.

I’ll fold your socks into

little bundles, presents

that you won’t open

because you never

leave the house.

I’ll stare through

the sliding glass window

and wonder what eagles do

when their mate can’t fly.

You’ll wear dents

in the carpet beneath your

chair, no longer interested

in kitchen tables

or speaking face to face.

I’ll count the days

since you hugged me.

Eventually,

I’ll stop saying goodnight.

Consumed in some kind

of virtual reality,

you’ll probably wish

it were your life

because it’s much easier

to understand than

the complexities

of marriage.

I’ll watch the ceiling

and conjure reasons

for leaving you

that pale in comparison

to the bitter truth

that we’re simply

not good for each other.

You will discover,

suddenly and far too late,

that you hate

life without us,

and I will tell you

to move on because

I already have.