We find our heroes
         (as is so common)
         in the throes of agony.

         pacing.

Describe a room
any room
fill it with *****, let it
leak brown and bitter
from the open windows.

       *don't mind the curtains

set your face in the upper left corner
pan across to them, naked and fuming
zoom.
straight to her powerful collarbones
       (stay above the *******,
         just a hint of cleavage)
his wrinkled jawline,
the quarter-inch neck stubble.

keep the shoulders in frame
how they tense, how they painfully
shrug and anticipate the next
verbal battalion.

watch their hands wave away
the demons of past nights        (read: last night)
give us the soft stomp of bare feet
on beaten carpet                        keep the stains.

their teeth reach out from
under the cover of wet pinkness.
take a second (slow-motion)
to appreciate the strands
of abandoned spit reaching from
one lip to the next
like suspension bridges.

the sounds are invisible,
but the pain is not

       *and the bruises
        won't be either