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And finally, the impasse

We reach,  with such impossible brilliance 

We bend

And our broken bodies, over two decades in the making

Almost half together 

Lay now bare before unveiled eyes 


We bend,  but do not break

So it was written in the vows of our forbearers, 

Shoulders bearing what only the impossible weight of uncertain future can break

We are alike,  and yet not

Not yet,

bound but not broken

Milk left on the table

Too long, curdling, sour smelling, indigestible 

And grudgingly 

Shoved back in the fridge. 

Before the rot can permeate the family

A gamble,  by whose hand?

Who put it back?

Slammed, shoved, forced

A force to be reckoned with

We will not break 

My beloved, 

You wound me. 

And yet every strike, a testament 

To one I've dealt you

Each and everyone agreeable

In some sense, rational. 

On the basis of why and cyclical nature 

Of vows

And love

And milk 


When we stared at eachother 

Skylight, starlight 

Obstructed by the Cookeville auditorium's lofty roof, trestled on pillars of all your regrets 

And mine. 


Our promises were true. 

Though mortals never knew

It's easy to say this thinking on age and scope and cycle after happenstance. 

We could never have known. 

Cast our dice against 

Cynicism and statistics and addicts

And all that would bring us white picket fences. 

We would build our own

And we might have. 

If not for our broken bodies

Cracked beneath uncertain future's daunting mass

And so did they,  too. 

Mortals never knew

But as I said,  our promises were true. 

The vows that bound them

We tread to speak

Not dare. 


Maybe we will if not in naming

In living

If this is the true blessed matrimony 

Fitting broken peices together, only to bend and break and fit and bend and break and fit and bend and break again 

And again


I have seen enough to live with it 

To be happy in the small moments

A splash of milk in my morning coffee