His blatant eyes
fail to disguise
his simultaneous fear
and desire
as I walk up to him
the way a prisoner
approaches his
electric chair.

Every word I don�t say
and every move he doesn�t make
build a thick wall
of tension
destroying communications.

He abandons me for
half an hour
in front of a TV
blaring hurricane sob stories,
leaving me to wring my hands
and constrict my chest
and call my Christian
on the verge of tears
begging for �something meaningful.�

He returns in cologne
and nothing
and I break down
and he screams
and his fist
fucks the wall,
his hand a violent
euphemism for his
thoughts.

When he slams the door,
my shoulders contract
until I am
barely able to move my arms
to light the cigarette
I suck at desperately
to create a reason
to avoid touching him.

And in my car
Billie Holiday breaks
the painful silence,
warbling about heartache
while I sob
my own silent blues.