when we fight,
it is not with
violence and
closed fists.

it is, with walls of  frigid words
and corridors of cold silence,
it is with bricked up
bittered rooms
and frozen tundra spaces.

when we fight,
it is not catastrophic,
or volcanic.
its a slow and grinding glacier.

it is, kisses of frost,
and polar bear hugs.
it is, with pointed,
icicle words,
and smiles,
of snowman coal.

when we fight,
it is not coming together,
in hot blooded fury.
it is surviving,
the boreal glares
and minus zero words.

its is surving,
the arctic
ice wind swirl,
of being,  
alone together  

when we fight,
it is,
waiting for,
the ice to crack,
the snow to melt,
and the sun to shine.

i consider it a good thing,
that we don't fight often