you complain about the
(loud constant humming of traffic coming through the bedroom wall at night

i,
sitting on the other side of the bed
facing away from you always
cry
and hear angels cry too.

you,
lost in your busy-city like momentum of thoughts
grumble and remove your shirt
already thinking about the next day
and i think you are a statue.

us in the backyard having picnics featuring saladas and orange juice.
us in the bathroom,
me reading you plath, serious and brooding,
your parents sending us joint birthday cards.

i'm sorry for falling apart.
but you should be sorrier