His breakfast smells like ripe tomatoes
and promises,
pledged in youth and romance,
a starter home, a child or two,
a job with promotions and perks,
naive happiness.
We are older now,
each creak and crack
in the house has a name,
unlike our shadow children.
He works so hard,
pale faced, heavy-footed,
listlessness engraved
into his bones.
Desire distills into an uneasy
companionship,
his hand restive in mine,
his shoulder sharp.
I do not hear the word love,
only silence,
and the foundation settling.
![Follow us on Facebook Facebook](https://streetlightmag.com/wp-content/plugins/social-media-feather/synved-social/image/social/regular/64x64/facebook.png)
![Follow us on Twitter twitter](https://streetlightmag.com/wp-content/plugins/social-media-feather/synved-social/image/social/regular/64x64/twitter.png)
![Check out our instagram feed instagram](https://streetlightmag.com/wp-content/plugins/social-media-feather/synved-social/image/social/regular/64x64/instagram.png)
Share this post with your friends.
![Share on Facebook Facebook](https://streetlightmag.com/wp-content/plugins/social-media-feather/synved-social/image/social/regular/64x64/facebook.png)
![Share on Twitter twitter](https://streetlightmag.com/wp-content/plugins/social-media-feather/synved-social/image/social/regular/64x64/twitter.png)
![Pin it with Pinterest pinterest](https://streetlightmag.com/wp-content/plugins/social-media-feather/synved-social/image/social/regular/64x64/pinterest.png)