.
Last night a voice in the dark asked- "Does it get better?"
I was half dressed,
tiptoe-ing through the lounge,
back to my room after taking a piss.
My housemate had fallen asleep earlier on the couch.
Didn't mean to wake her.
We're all hurting in this house.
A cross section of breakups and collected loneliness,
things broken and stolen,
hangs over us here like an awning.
Does it get better? Yes.
Said it quietly,
not quite a whisper,
but low enough not to scare
the conviction of that answer
away.
A word so very fragile at this hour.
It is correct.
I know that yes,
through my slow-healing blood
and gristled joints.
Not my first rodeo.
Not the last either, most likely.
Mountains climbed and deserts crossed
got nothing still on slammed doors
and choked phone calls.
You go on,
seems impassable,
but y'get on with it,
because that's what you do.
We are an emptied bladder
and makeshift bedding.
She's confused,
I'm just angry.
Couldn't see her face
and don't think she could
see mine either.
Thank goodness.
Yes, it does get better.
________________
-Peace.
.
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