We could have ended this
last year — or the one before.
A hundred quiet chances
passed us in the hall.
Now, the shared routines
fit more like clothes too tight:
an arm that doesn’t quite
go where it once belonged.
Dinner’s the same —
two glasses, two plates,
words worn thin
from circling the same ground.
Neither of us speaks of it —
the gentle, heavy fact
that habit
is stronger than desire.
Even the quarrels have gone stale,
like bread we forgot to throw away.
It drags on,
an old coat
no one will claim,
left on the back of a chair.
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Originally Posted by tailor STATELY
