I, always the me now, never the we,
ask again: Where does the anger come from?
The resentment? The manufactured past?
Mine, hers: what we remember: the slights
and wounds still bleeding. No concurrent flow
of telling, not even a parallel,
contrapuntal at best; more dissonant
tales to contradict, and exacerbate
the scream, the disconnect of skewed tangents,
no parallax to broaden perspective
Just the sharp shimmer of indecision
decimating any remnants of love
like hundreds of fragments of broken glass
tumbling out of a multitude of skies.
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