The dust settles,
a fragile ceasefire in the kitchen light,
the air gritty with unsaid apologies,
yesterday’s words like shrapnel
lodged beneath a skin of silence.
We pick at them, carefully,
as if the wounds might close themselves
if left untouched.

Not every fragment will be found.
Some will burrow deep, beyond reach,
embedding themselves in the softest places—
a pulse, a memory,
the tender stretch of trust.
One surfaces, jagged and unrelenting,
tearing more than it mends
as it’s unearthed.

I search for survivors.
Among the wreckage,
I sift through fractured moments,
brushing dust off faded laughter,
lifting the corners of shared glances
to see if they still breathe.

I find you at the table’s edge,
gathering remnants,
trying to stitch your heart
with thread that frays in your hands.
Each attempt feels like undoing,
the fabric slipping apart faster
than your quiet resolve can hold.

Love is a battle we didn’t mean
to start, a terrain where even
tenderness can be mined.
How quickly affection
becomes artillery,
our voices the mortar shells
that leave ruin in their wake.

Tonight, we lay down our weapons,
and although the quiet folds over us,
I can still feel the echo of the blast,
the whispers of another battle
waiting beyond the horizon.