You slam the door and walk out,
or you leave quietly,
pulsing the static air
with what you believe is a statement.
You come back with lilies
and her favorite steamed dumplings
as a way of saying you were wrong,
or you go to The Feel Sorry For Yourself
Bar down the street and put some dents
in your infrastructure, hurt yourself good.
You come back singing an old song,
or are mumbling when
she fetches you and drives you home.
Or you stay and fight it out,
or stay and let rough sex
calm you into mere resentment.
Or you turn on the television
as a way of being together
without having to be present.
Or you say nothing and carry it with you,
or you say nothing and let it go.
And your dreams become populated
with other people you could have loved,
and her dreams, too, are shameless
and equally full, aren’t they? you ask,
even if she hasn’t volunteered a thing.