we were still, quiet things,
twin drumbeats
among hoofbeats,
background noise against
a steady foreground.
we measured our brokenness
like flour in measuring cups
pure and white,
skimmed and leveled off at the top.
some things aren’t supposed to overflow;
blessings are, but we weren’t blessed,
not in the ways we thought we wanted.
so we found a new covenant in each other
in soft words and soft lips
and soft promises broken against skin made soft.
still. silent.
but the cacophony grew too loud,
discordant, dissonant,
our drumbeats discrepant.
distance. disaster.
we were still, quiet things,
two drumbeats among hoofbeats,
background noise against a sporadic foreground