She moved slowly in bed,
the kind of move that doesn’t go anywhere.
A shift of the skin among sheets.
Rolls of curves exposed and
twisted,
while moving.
He sat back and watched,
aware that things had moved inside of him
as much as they had changed inside her.
He felt the disconnection from connection,
the collection of apprehension.
Why was it so difficult,
he wondered,
to say things that hurt other people.
‘I’m becoming a grumpy old man’,
he knew instead of muddered.
Old and harry and fat, but most of all
grumpy.
And How can you fix a grumpy old man?
You cant bring back his children who died at war,
you cant give him anymore,
you cant rebuild his house that got taken.
You can’t wed him his wife that got retaken.
Past the remorse and the pain,
the drama and the rain,
the passionate mundane becomes the plain,
while she moves slowly in bed again.
