We all stopped fighting a few years ago. The throwing stopped and there was little poetry left. Suddenly, it had slowly become about average hangovers and average snakes among average weeds. We stopped the bedroom hopscotch and crippling verses but I can see them all if I close my eyes and feel my feet on the carpeted stage. There was a stare that felt like sinking ice and I wouldn’t surrender it ever, nor would I do it again.
And we stand now, miles apart, single file, in a marching salute to pool sides and flailing love.
If I could, ours would be a wicked goodbye, terse words then silence, maybe a wave at the door as we leave through opposite sides of San Fran hotel room.