Growing bold against your coldness, I slip a foot under the sheet.

Graze the curve behind your ankle and you snap your neck to chastise me, your best stone wall impression in lieu of letting me hear your voice. You know how long I’ve been waiting for you to say anything.

Cupping your face with my thoughts since you won’t let me use my hands, I thrust at you a desperate, misty-eyed rendition of the lines I’ve been running through my head since we last put on this routine.

Though I know from experience you’ll batter each word just as it leaves my swollen mouth- lest you hear any way in which you may be at fault.

“Is this how you see the rest of your life?” memory of a friend’s concern rings sharply inside of me.

Is this how I see the rest of my life…

I tell myself what I always do; so many passionless relationships…maybe the stones you throw are worth their weight in rushing blood and “forgive me” kisses.

My quivery monologue comes to an end and you turn away, unimpressed with my efforts as ever. “Maybe this is worth it”, I repeat with dwindling conviction.

“The dirty dishes stack up high, but at least they’re proof we’re eating.”