The two of us

You think I don’t know 

when love is exhausted and spent

and there is nothing left except

the habits that have made us

who we are, told and retold 

too often to be believed anymore.


Yet here we are the two of us,

alone, thoroughly polite and 

sensible most of the time, but hiding 

the gnawing wish for love unfulfilled 

and stirred up to rage that flows out 

at unexpected moments of disintegration.


Afraid, afraid to say too much we are,

afraid to end it and break the illusion

created over so many years, and knowing

each other so well but not at all:

fools that cannot get beyond their foolishness.


We live uncomfortably in the irony

of not wanting to be alone but 

overwhelmed with loneliness that 

finds its ground in Intimacy Lost and

not re-found, living together in

peace when there is no peace at all.