The Bickers
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She places down the teacup with a clatter,
A silent prelude to what doesn't matter.
He clears his throat and rustles at the news,
The stage is set for half-forgotten cues.
It wasn't malice, nor a weighty wrong,
Just simmering resentment, low and long,
About a comment made a week ago,
A careless phrase that set the buried glow.
She mentions bills, and with a feigned surprise,
He sees the ancient battle in her eyes.
He talks of weather, with a practiced drone,
As if the fight were hers and hers alone.
The living room, a field of bitter truce,
Their conversation, careful and obtuse,
Each phrase a coded, passive-aggressive jab,
A tiny cut, a weary, silent stab.
The dog sleeps soundly, used to all the noise,
This rhythm of their small domestic joys
And bitter hurts, a well-worn, common thread,
A tapestry of things they've left unsaid.
At last, a silence, brittle, hard, and thin,
The only sound, the clock's insistent din.
A chasm forms where once a touch would be,
He reads his paper, and she sips her tea.
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