You go out
not for long, be back by 5.

6 hits like a slap to the face,
smarting, pain turns to anger.

"Will you be back soon?"
Pride bites cheeks, sore from asking.

Half an hour is the parody of reply,
but I wait anyway.

45 minutes and no sound of return,
I burn on the sofa.

Anger grows, a deafening shout of
hatred unleashed, aimed at you

it still lands on me. I leave,
footsteps tracing concrete promises.

Late, I return, you stand with greeting on
fermented lips, I ignore your eyes

and tell you everything is fine. You get
angry now too.

We both burn, you hold weary righteousness
and I, a fire fed by something

I don't even understand.